


A Kiss Through A Veil

by princeofprinces (orphan_account)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Hunchback of Notre Dame, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Racism, Romani Bucky, Torture, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-10 19:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11698563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/princeofprinces
Summary: “Don’t be afraid.” The performer knelt next to the pillory and removed his red shawl from his shoulders, using it to wipe away the tomato and egg mixture that had dried on Estienne’s cheek. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”





	1. The Atmosphere of Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A compliment is something like a kiss through a veil. — Victor Hugo, _Les Misérables_ , "Enchantment and Despair"

The night was cold, the moon and stars seemed hidden behind a blanket of dark clouds. Still the boatman pressed on, guiding the small boat with its three passengers through the Seine, a long stick in place of oars. All was silent, until the wailing of a baby broke the peace.

“Hush him up!” A man whispered loudly, scolding his wife. If they were discovered, they would surely all be killed.

“Hush little one.” The woman rocked the infant.

“We’ll be spotted!” Another man warned.

But the boatman delivered them safely to a snow-covered Parisian dock near the cathedral. As they disembarked, the rowman held out a hand and croaked, “Four francs for safe entry into Paris.”

But before they could pay, an arrow was loosed, embedding itself in the boatman’s stick. The moon had come out from under its blanket of clouds, revealing a shadow as it crept up on a wall, its owner not far behind.

“Judge Alexandre Percer.” The husband whispered loudly.

Percer had heard of a small group of Huguenots attempting to gain passage into Paris, and had patrolled the Seine himself that night, keeping an eye out for any sign of them.

“Take these Protestant vermin to the Palace of Justice.” The judge ordered the soldiers, catching sight of the Huguenot cross worn around the woman’s neck. Protestants were being hunted all through the country, in an early attempt to establish a single religion.

The woman held the child to her, watching helplessly as the three men—her husband, the baby’s godfather, and the boatman—were clapped in irons and led away by Percer’s soldiers.

“You there! What have you got?” One of the soldiers demanded, grabbing for the bundle.

“Stolen goods, no doubt. Take them from her.” Percer commanded.

The woman ran, clutching her child to her as she made her way through the snowy Paris streets. Percer pursued, even as she banged on the doors of the cathedral and called for sanctuary. He drove his horse up the steps and snatched the bundle from her, while driving his foot into her chest, pushing her down onto the steps, where she fell, lifeless.

The bundle wailed, and Percer looked down at it.

“A baby?” He pulled back the cloths covering the child’s face, recoiling in horror once his eyes saw what had been hidden from view. “A monster.” He looked around franticly, there had to be some way to dispose of this creature. Then he caught sight of a nearby well. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it would have to do. As he held the bundle over the well, preparing to let it drop, a voice broke the silence of the night.

“Stop!” The Archdeacon cried. He had heard the woman’s cries, but had arrived too late. He knelt down on the steps, cradling the woman’s head. “Look at the innocent blood you have spilt, on the steps of Notre Dame. Now you would add this child’s blood to further ruin your already tainted soul.”

Percer moved the bundle away from the well, supporting the child in his arms. “What would you have me do?”

“Care for the child, and raise it as your own.”

“What?!” Percer looked down at the child. “You would have me burdened with this frail—” He looked back at the Archdeacon. “Very well. But let him live with you, in the cathedral.”

“Live here? Where?”

“Anywhere. Just as long as he is kept locked away from view.” Percer looked up at the highest reaches of the cathedral. “The bell tower, perhaps. And who knows, our Lord works in mysterious ways. This child may one day be of use to me.”

\---

The city of Paris was awoken by the ringing of bells every day without exception. Estienne swung down the ropes with an ease that came naturally, after doing so for twenty years. He landed with a _thunk_ among a group of birds, who flew away as soon as he walked toward the balcony. The sun had risen by now, illuminating nearly every inch of the city with its light. Estienne placed his arms over the stones of the balcony, warming them in the morning sunlight. He looked down on the city, watching as everyone prepared for the festival: jugglers, acrobats, wine and beer and dancing. And the highlight of the event: the crowning of the King of Fools.

Estienne sighed, his heart heavy. Although watching the festival had always been the highlight of his year, the thing that he longed to do, what he had wanted to do for as long as he could remember, was to attend the festival in person. To actually be there, in the streets, partaking in the festivities and revelry among the people. That was what Estienne wanted more than anything.

There was, however, one person who stood in his way: Percer, his master. Ever since he could remember, Percer had forbidden Estienne from leaving the cathedral.

“Why shouldn’t I go? I should be allowed outside at least once in my life.” Estienne complained to a gargoyle, although he knew full well that he wouldn’t get an answer. “It just looks like so much fun.” He put his head on his arms; watching as wagons and carts were unpacked and unloaded, jugglers and acrobats practiced their tricks and acts, vendors set up stalls for their wares, and those who would be selling food ensured that everything would be hot and delicious for the public to consume. Estienne heaved a sigh as he walked back inside the tower, knowing that he would never be allowed to go to the festival, no matter how much he wanted to.

“It isn’t fair!” He yelled at an unfinished statue of Lidwina.

“Good morning, Estienne.”

Estienne turned around, he hadn’t heard anyone coming up the wooden stairs of the tower. He swallowed and backed into a wooden support beam, looking down. “Good morning, Master.”

Percer moved further into the tower, his black robe nearly trailing behind him as did so. “My dear boy, whomever were you talking to?”

“My...friends.” Estienne felt foolish saying it, keeping his head down as he answered.

“I see. And what are your friends made of, Estienne?” Percer placed one hand on the statue’s shoulder.

“Stone.” Estienne still could not meet his gaze, his tone becoming more sorrowful.

“And can stone talk?” Percer’s eyes seemed to pierce into Estienne’s very soul.

“No, it can’t.” It was nearly a whisper.

“Good. You’re a smart lad.” Percer breezed past his charge as he set the basket he had been carrying down on a small circular table. “Now, lunch.”

At the mention of lunch, Estienne moved from where he stood, rooted to the post, retrieving a pewter goblet and plate and setting them in front of his master, then returning with a wooden cup and flat disc of wood for himself. The wooden cup was shorter in height than the goblet, and served as an ever-constant reminder to Estienne of his rightful place, well below that of Percer.

“Would you like to review your alphabet today?” Percer asked as he drew a thick leather-bound book from under his arm and cracked it open, placing it on his lap and leaning it against the table for support.

“Oh yes, Master, I would like that very much.”

“Very well. Ey?” Percer poured wine into the drinking vessels; first his, then Estienne’s.

“Abomination.” Estienne recited dutifully.

“Be?” Percer recited the letters in a bored voice.

“Blasphemy.”

“See?”

“C-c-contrition.” Estienne stuttered.

“Dee?”

“Damnation.”

“Ee?”

“ _Eternal_ damnation.” Estienne placed emphasis on the first word, smiling as he said it.

“Ef?” Percer said, taking a sip of wine as he turned the page of the book.

“Festival.” Estienne looked to the side as he said it, smiling at the ground. He heard sputtering and looked back up to see Percer wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, red wine spilling over his wrist and threatening to stain his over-doublet.

“What did you say?” Percer’s tone was soft and dangerously quiet, a sign for Estienne to choose his next words very carefully.

Estienne looked around helplessly. “Fu…fu…forgiveness.” He stuttered at last, knowing there was no way to cover the slip of his tongue.

“You said festival.” Percer slammed the book shut. 

“No!”

“You were thinking of going to the festival.” Percer stood abruptly, nearly knocking back the chair he had been sitting on. Estienne stood from the low stool he was allowed to use, following Percer as the judge swept through the room and down the tower stairs. 

“It’s just that you go every year, and I thought—”

“I am a public official, I _have_ to go. But I don’t enjoy a moment of it. Thieves and hustlers and the dregs of society all mixed together in a wild, drunken stupor.” Percer rubbed his temples, it hurt just thinking about the festival.

“I didn’t mean to upset you Master.”

“Estienne, can’t you understand?” The judge moved closer to his charge, placing a hand on one of his shoulders as he did so. “When your heartless mother abandoned you as a child, anyone else would have drowned you. And this is my thanks for taking you in and raising you?” Percer drew back, letting his hand drop from Estienne’s body.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Estienne looked down again.

“Oh, my dear Estienne, you don’t know what it’s like out there in the world. But I do...I do.” He walked outside, Estienne following behind him. “How can I protect you, boy, unless you always stay in here?” He made his way back inside the tower, up the stairs where a model of the city stood. “You are small.”

“I am small.” Estienne repeated.

“And you are sickly.”

“And I am sickly.”

“And these are crimes for which the world shows little pity. You do not comprehend.” Percer placed a hand under Estienne’s chin, raising his head up until their eyes met.

“You are my one defender.”

“Stay in here, be faithful to me.”

“I’m faithful.”

“Be grateful to me.”

“I am grateful.”

“Do as I say. Obey and stay in here.”

“I will stay in here.”

Percer turned to leave, and Estienne stood, following his master to the stairs.

“You are good to me, Master. I’m sorry for wishing I could leave.”

Percer turned to look at his charge. “You are forgiven. But remember this, Estienne: this,” he pointed to the roof of the tower, “is your sanctuary.” Percer descended down the stairs, closing the door behind him.

“Sanctuary.” Estienne repeated, softly to himself, as if reassuring himself of that truth. He walked back outside the tower, around the balcony guarded by its gargoyles of stone. Stone. Gargoyles. Percer. These were his only friends, his only contacts with the outside world, a world which was forbidden from him; from which he was forbidden to interact with. It was a world, he was told, that if he were ever to interact with, that he would be mocked and jeered and laughed at and scorned for his appearance.

\---

Down in the streets of Paris, among the activity and amid the hustle and bustle of citizens preparing for the festival, walked a figure clad in armor, leading a gray horse. The figure walked slowly, the reins of their horse held in one hand, a map of the city in the other. Eventually, after turning the map every which way and still not being able to discern where exactly they were or how to get where they wanted to end up, the map was crumpled up and thrown behind them, landing in the street and rolling into a pile of manure and dirty straw.

“You leave for a few years and everything changes.” The figure spoke to their horse, who snorted in response and pawed at the cobblestone street. “I know, I know, we’ll find it eventually. Just be patient, Jacquemin.” The woman walked a little faster, allowing her horse to move his limbs more.

The distant sounds of music broke through the din of the crowd, and the woman walked toward it, her horse following dutifully behind. Down a row of houses and around a corner, sitting in a niche just before an alleyway, was the source of the music. An old man sat on a pile of feed sacks, playing a shawm. Beside him, a younger man danced and shook a tambourine, while a small goat hopped from side to side over a hat. A child ran to the musicians, but a young woman led the child away.

“Stay away Pierrick—they’re Gypsies. They’ll rob us blind.”

“But Aunt Marie—!”

The performer shook his head as they passed, dark brown hair flying around his face as he beat the tambourine slowly. The woman dropped a few coins into the hat as the goat jumped over it. Suddenly a child jumped up on a wall behind them and whistled, jumping back down again, lest they be spotted. The old man got up and ran, the goat picked up the hat and ran over to the performer, coins scattering everywhere. The performer bent down and began to gather the coins, but was stopped by two soldiers, who stood in front of him, one of them reaching down and grabbing the hat.

“All right Gypsy. Where did all this money come from?”

“For your information, I earned it.” The performer said, snatching the hat from the soldier as he stood.

“Gypsies don’t earn money.” The soldier retorted, giving his companion time to grab the man from behind. “They steal it!”

“You’d know a lot about stealing.” The performer twisted and wiggled his way free, throwing one of his legs up to hit the soldier before him in the jaw, while the goat butted the other soldier in the stomach. Clutching the hat closed, the performer ran down the street, the goat following behind him. The soldiers got up, collected their senses, and gave chase to the pair. The woman saw where this was headed, and tugged at her horse’s reins, causing the soldiers to crash into the animal with a _thud_.

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you alright?” The woman turned to the horse. “Bad horse, that was very naughty.” The horse sat, crushing one of the soldiers and forcing him into a mud puddle. “I do apologize, he’s really quite impossible.”

“You should watch where you’re going, peasant!” The other guard drew a knife from his belt.

The woman took the opportunity to throw her cloak back and draw her own weapon, twisting the sword around in her hand before pointing it at the soldier in question. “You were saying…Lieutenant?”

The soldier dropped the knife, which clattered to the ground, the noise ringing among the cobblestones. “C-c-Captain!” He snapped his visor up, revealing a thin face with closely-cropped black hair.

The Captain sheathed her sword, dropping to one knee to speak with the other soldier, who lifted their visor, showing in turn a ruddy face that also had closely-cropped black hair, as well as signs of some past battle that had not gone well, if the burn marks and terrible disfigurement were anything to go by.

“I realize that you must have a lot on your mind at the moment, but…the Palace of Justice?”

“Oh, of course! But, uh, do you think…?” The soldier jerked a thumb up at the horse, still sat on him.

The Captain took her horse’s reins and lead the animal off the soldier, who sprung up, and, with his companion, began to walk ahead of the Captain, shouting for all those ahead to clear a path and make way.

The Palace of Justice loomed overhead, large and imposing. As the Captain neared the castle-like building, her feet clanged against something, and she looked down to see four gold coins, which she picked up. When she straightened she caught sight of a figure sitting in the nearby shadows, smoking a pipe, a hat on the ground by their feet. Drawing closer to the building, the Captain dropped the coins into the hat and continued walking. If the Captain had looked back, she would have seen the figure pull their hood back, revealing themself to be the performer, the goat on his shoulders, the pipe clenched firmly between the bovidae’s teeth. When he saw that the way was relatively free from danger, he grabbed the hat, held on to the goat with both hands, and got up slowly, not wanting any more trouble than had already been caused. Enough was enough for one morning.

After stabling her horse, the Captain entered the Palace of Justice, greeted by the sound of a cat-o’-nine-tails being used on some poor individual.

“Stop.”

The whipping ceased, and the tormentor reported to a man dressed in the clothing of a judge.

“If you wait ten seconds between lashes, he won’t be dulled to the pain of the old by the new.”

The tormentor nodded and went back to work.

The judge caught sight of the Captain and turned to her. “Ah, if it isn’t the brave Captain Marguerite Charron. Back home from the wars.”

Marguerite stood tall, her helmet held in one hand. “Reporting for reassignment, as ordered, sir.”

“Your war record precedes you, Captain.” The judge walked around her as he spoke. “I’m still surprised that you were even allowed to join our armies, with you being a woman, and an English woman as well.”

If Percer saw Marguerite narrow her eyes at him, he didn’t say, and didn’t let on either. “If you must know, my brother was killed by Lancastrian forces during the Battle of Tewkesbury. Had he not died eleven years ago, he would be in my position, but, as he is not, you will have to make due with me in his place. I think, given the circumstances under which I was summoned, that my being a woman and being English can be put aside. Sir.” She added, almost as an afterthought; she couldn’t risk being thrown out of the city already, not when she had yet to prove herself.

“I see. Well, I am sure you will suffice. You must know, however, that my last Captain of the Guard was quite a disappointment.”

As if to illustrate the point, the whip snapped violently, and scream reverberated around the stone walls, throughout the dungeon. Marguerite startled at the noise, her eyes going wide and her breathing momentarily coming to a halt.

“But I have no doubt that you will be able to, ah, whip my men into shape, as it were.” Percer smiled at his own joke.

“It would be an honor, sir.”

The two exited the dungeon, leaving it for an upper balcony which overlooked the city.

“You’ve come to Paris in her darkest hour, Captain.”

They walked side by side; Percer on the outside, with Marguerite on the inside.

“What do you mean, sir?”

Percer stopped, facing the balcony and the city. The Captain followed suit, turning to look at the city she had just made her home. For now, at least.

“Look, Captain.” The judge fixed his gaze on one particular corner of the city. There, Marguerite saw the trio she had seen earlier -- the old man playing the shawm, the performer dancing with his tambourine, and the goat hopping over a hat. A small crowd had gathered to watch the performance, a few even tossed coins into the hat. “Gypsies.” Percer said the word with unconcealed disgust. “The Gypsies live outside the normal order. Their heathen ways inflame the people’s lowest instincts, and they must be stopped.”

Marguerite made no attempt to hide the incredulous tone in her voice as she spoke. “I was summoned from the wars…to capture fortune tellers and palm readers?”

“Oh the real war, Captain, is right before you. For twenty years, I have been taking care of the Gypsies, one...by...one.” He squashed three ants with his thumb on the last three words, grinding the remains of the last ant into the stone balcony tile. The judge lifted the tile, revealing a swarm of ants underneath. “And yet, for all my success, they have thrived. I believe they have a safe haven within the city walls. A nest, if you will.”

“What are we going to do about it, sir?” Marguerite's arm hurt from holding her helmet this long.

Percer slammed the tile back down, turning it slightly, so it had the most effect.

“You make your point quite vividly, sir.”

Down in the streets below, the assembled crowds begin to cheer loudly.

One of Percer’s hands flew to a temple, which he rubbed. “Duty calls. Have you ever attended a peasant festival, Captain?”

“Not recently, sir.”

“Then this should be quite an education for you. Come along.”

Marguerite followed the judge as they descended down the stone steps of the Palace of Justice.

\---

Outside the cathedral, Estienne had scaled the cathedral walls, and was miraculously still alive. He leaped from one pillar to another, then slid to the ground, landing safely among the crowd gathered for the festival.

A man stood on a stage in front of the cathedral, his dark blue tunic matching his hose. He spoke in a loud voice, ensuring that those gathered would be able to hear him.

“Come one! Come all! For today is the day when everything is backwards and upside down!” He jumped from the stage, landing on his hands, which he began walking on. The crowd parted for him as he made his way through, people whooping and cheering as he continued in that manner for some time, until he caught sight of Estienne. He let himself drop to the ground, rolling back onto his feet and popping up beside Estienne, who pulled the hood of his cloak closer to his face and shrunk back into the crowd.

Percer sat on a throne-like chair reserved for him, in a sheltered area across from the stage. Marguerite was near him, mounted and dressed in full armor, her sword by her side.

“Come one! Come all!” The Lord of Misrule cried again, standing from his spot on the stage once more. “See the finest boy in France, make an entrance to _entrance_. Dance _le cerf_ …dance!” At the last word, he jumped down from the stage, revealing another man in his place.

This other man wore a high-collared shirt that had been done up with a black-threaded embroidery. Everything else he wore—his hose, his shoes—were all black, like he was trying to hide himself in broad daylight.

Estienne watched as he danced, and noticed that he mostly moved his legs and stomped his feet. He danced the length of the stage, then ran down and leapt off, landing in the judge’s box. He sat on an armrest of Percer’s chair, one hand on the back of the judge’s neck as he moved closer, as if he would kiss the judge’s nose. But then, at the last possible second, he pulled the judge’s hat over his eyes and jumped back onto the stage. He did a cartwheel, landing with his legs split apart. The crowd cheered louder and louder with every action. He picked himself up and turned around, winking at Estienne, who felt something rise within him; something deep and warm. Something that frightened him more than he dared to say. Then the performer was bowing, and people were throwing coins on the stage, and the other man, the Lord of Misrule, had jumped up and was announcing that it was time to crown the King of Fools. Members of the audience began to make their way to the stage, and suddenly Estienne was being pulled onstage by the performer, who smiled at him as Estienne pulled his hood back.

One by one peasants had their masks pulled off, and if they were deemed ‘not ugly’ enough by the crowd, they were butted off the stage by a small black-and-white goat.

“Now Wanda, don’t go too hard on ‘em.” The performer chided the goat, a hand reaching down to rub her head. “Those horns can hurt.”

The goat only bleated at him before butting another unfortunate soul into the growing heap on the cobblestones below.

The performer turned to Estienne, his hands going to the bell-ringer’s face and giving a gentle tug. Then the realization dawned on him, and he called down the stage: “Pietro!” The other man walked at a leisurely pace, placing an arm on the performer’s shoulder when he reached him.

“ _Hi so kade_?”

“ _Na kaver muy_.”

Estienne couldn't understand anything that had been said, it was in a tongue he could not understand. Then there came a cry from someone in the crowd: “It’s the bell-ringer from Notre Dame!”

Percer nearly stood, but clutched the arms of his chair to steady himself.

Pietro, sensing that chaos could erupt at any moment, spoke up. “We asked for a terrifying face, and here it is. I present to you: Estienne, the bell-ringer of Notre Dame!”

For the first time, Estienne noticed that Pietro had an accent, something far away, further than Notre Dame and Paris and the whole of France.

And before he could object, Estienne was butted off the stage by the goat, landing on his butt among the crowd, which parted for him like the Red Sea. Then Pietro jumped down, parading Estienne like a fine prize through the square and the streets, showing off the King of Fools to everyone, to the whole of Paris, as if to say: ‘Look what a fine king we have this year! We’ve never had a king like this before! Come and see him for yourself!’

Then Pietro lead him back to the square, where the bell-ringer climbed back onto the stage, amid the cheering of the crowd. Estienne was nearly moved to tears; he had never received this kind of admiration from anyone before.

“Ha! You think he’s terrifying now? Watch this!” One of the soldiers threw a tomato, which hit Estienne square in the face, falling to the stage with a splat!. Estienne wiped the watery liquid from his cheek, only to be pelted with two more tomatoes. These were followed by raw eggs, the sticky yolks running down his face and into his shirt. Then came old onions, their repulsive smell sticking to his skin as other members of the crowd threw ropes at him, the lassos catching him around his neck and across one arm, pulling both back painfully far. The ropes were tied to a circular pillory, which was spun; first slowly, but gradually faster as the crowd continued pelting Estienne with rotten food, laughing and jeering at his mistreatment.

As Estienne was spun, he caught sight of Percer, staring at him with a burning hatred in his eyes.

“Master! Help me, please!” Estienne pleaded, his stomach lurching as the platform spun faster.

But Percer did nothing, he only sat there, glaring at his charge.

At the sound of all the commotion, the performer looked out from behind the stage curtain, where he and Pietro were now somewhat safely hidden from Percer and his soldiers.

Marguerite couldn’t stomach it any longer. She turned to Percer, who hadn’t moved since the mock coronation began.

“Permission to stop this cruelty, sir.”

Percer raised one hand. “In a moment, Captain. A lesson needs to be learned.” He pointed his hand down, one finger extended on the wood of the armrest.

The jeering and laughing suddenly stopped, and was replaced by a collective gasp. Both Percer and Marguerite looked to the platform, where the performer was ascending the stairs. He was dressed in more simple clothes. Behind the curtain, Pietro mouthed words, both French and foreign, one hand stroking the goat absently.

“Don’t be afraid.” The performer knelt next to the pillory and removed his red shawl from his shoulders, using it to wipe away the tomato and egg mixture that had dried on Estienne’s cheek. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

This time, Percer stood, a finger raised in the direction of the performer. “You! Gypsy boy! Get down at once!”

The performer whipped his head around, his dark chestnut hair flying with the quick movement. “Yes, your honor. Just as soon as I free this poor boy.”

“I forbid it!”

The performer reached down and pulled a dagger from his belt, running it under the ropes and snapping them.

The old judge snarled. “How dare you defy me!”

Estienne sat up, removing the ropes from around his neck and arm, wiping away what remained of the sticky residue.

The performer turned to face Percer, sheathing his dagger as he did so. “You mistreat this poor boy the same way you mistreat my people. You speak of justice, yet you are cruel to those most in need of your help.”

Percer had heard enough. “Silence!”

The performer raised a fist in the air. “Justice!”

Percer pointed at the performer once again. “Mark my words, Gypsy. You’ll pay for this insolence.”

“Then it appears we have crowned the wrong king. The only fool I see here is you.”

Percer turned to Marguerite. “Captain, arrest this man!”

The performer counted the body of soldiers as they formed a circle around the platform. “There’s ten of you, and—”

A cry went up from the crowd as Pietro came tearing through.

“Wanda! _Avel pāle_!”

But the goat was too fast, and slipped past the soldiers, running up the platform to the performer and butting him square in the butt. He pitched forward, rolling with the force of the blow and landing outside the soldier’s circle, the goat jumping down next to him. As soon as their feet hit the ground again, they ran, zigzagging in and out of the crowd to confuse and evade the soldiers. The pair continued until they reached an alleyway, ducking inside for good measure. Then the performer removed his shawl and unfolded it, picked up the goat, placed her on his shoulders, pulled the shawl over both of their heads, and gave the goat the pipe. Then, hunching over, the performer walked out of the alleyway, disguised once more as an old man.

Percer was furious. “Find him, Captain! I want him alive!”

Marguerite nodded. “Yes, sir.” She turned to those soldiers who had remained in the square. “Seal off the area, men! Find the Gypsy boy, and do not harm him!” The soldiers dispersed all throughout the area. 

Percer mounted his horse and rode up to the platform where Estienne still remained. He looked down upon his charge, his eyes searing into Estienne’s soul with a burning anger. Estienne looked down in shame.

“I’m sorry, Master. I will never disobey you again.”

Estienne got up and walked down the platform. When he reached the cobblestone street, the crowd again parted for him, and he slowly made his way to the cathedral. Soon he was safe behind the large wooden door, which he slowly pushed closed, shutting himself inside once more. In here he was safe, in here he was free. This was his sanctuary, and he knew he could never leave again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> le cerf: French, male deer
> 
> Hi so kade: Romungro, what is it?
> 
> Na kaver muy: Vlax, no other face
> 
> Avel pāle: Romungro, come back


	2. No Other Pearl

“Boy!”

Estienne turned from cleaning the Grand Bell, having recognized his master’s voice with his back to the old man. Percer stood far from his charge, hands hidden within the wide sleeves of his robe.

“You will be punished for your disobedience. You are to be flogged and turned on the pillory for one hour, followed by another hour’s public humiliation.”

Estienne’s mouth went dry. Yesterday had been bad enough, but today’s punishment seemed far worse. He only nodded, and followed the judge down the stairs and out of the cathedral. He climbed back up the platform, where one of the soldiers stood, dressed only in a pair of hose and shoes, his face horribly disfigured with burns. The tormentor was cracking a cat-o’-nine-tails, gathering a reaction from the assembled crowd. Estienne stood before the pillory and pulled his shirt over his head. Gasps and cries went up from those assembled.

“The boy has a little…issue with his chest.” The judge explained as Estienne crossed his wrists behind his back.

The tormentor threw the whip down and picked up a length of rope, which was looped around Estienne’s wrists and tied tightly. Estienne was then led to the pillory, amid cheers from the crowd.

“Now Roland, don’t go too hard on him. He still needs to ring the bells this afternoon and tonight.” Percer said through a grin.

There was more laughter as Percer turned his back to walk toward the Palace of Justice. Estienne knelt on the pillory, allowing Roland to tie his hands to the post in the center of the pivoted platform. Roland picked up the whip again, cracking it in the air and laughing when Estienne flinched at the sound.

One can never be fully prepared to receive a flogging, despite how much one may prepare themselves mentally beforehand. Estienne grit his teeth as the whip fell upon him, striking his skin. He sucked in a breath as the whip fell upon him again, then a third time. Four, five, six— the crowd cheered louder with every strike. Seven, eight, nine— Estienne kept counting until he reached twenty, but the crowd kept count, calling out a higher number every time the whip hit him, again and again. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the counting came to a halt, and Estienne heard a _thunk_ as Roland dropped the whip.

Then he was spinning, faster and faster, the crowd becoming a blur of color and sound. Then came the food; raw tomatoes and eggs, rotten apples and old cabbage. The crowd laughed and jeered more now, they loved to see the small bell-ringer suffering, with open wounds and covered in refuse. They were a sadistic bunch, these Parisians.

When the spinning finally stopped, half an hour later, Estienne expected to be whipped again. Instead, he was left to be subjected to the mockings and jeering of those assembled and of passerby.

“Water…water!” Estienne cried, but no one paid him any mind, no one would satisfy his thirst. Someone came up behind him and washed the blood from his back, applying sweet oils and ointments to the wounds. They made their way around the bell-ringer, washing away watery tomato juice and raw egg yolks, plucking up a stray cabbage leaf and swiping Estienne’s hair out of his face.

Estienne looked up, and saw the kindly face of Abraham, the local barber.

“Abraham.” Relief washed over Estienne, for the barber, like the bell-ringer himself, was an outcast. A Jew, Abraham had moved from Augsburg to Provence, and had made his way up to Paris in 1481, just the previous year. Abraham was often called upon by Percer to care for Estienne when the bell-ringer fell ill; it had been Abraham who discovered that Estienne was losing his hearing in one ear.

Estienne licked his lips; they had chapped with dehydration. “I suppose you wouldn’t have any water with you.”

The barber chuckled. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. But he might.” Abraham turned and pointed to a young man drawing water from the local well. Then the old barber got up off his hunches and walked down the platform, disappearing into the crowd.

Estienne figured it was worth at least trying to get water again. “Water!” He cried once more, his voice now hoarse, the words attempting to stick in his dry throat.

The man at the well drew up the bucket, setting it on the stone of the structure before emptying it into another bucket, this one not attached to the well. Then he placed the bucket on one shoulder and made his way through the crowd, walking up the platform to where Estienne was tied. Estienne didn’t notice the _thunk_ made by the bucket as it was set before him, instead focusing his attention and keeping his eyes on the man, whom he now realized was the performer from the other day. The same performer who had saved him from the crowd’s cruel torment.

The performer cupped his hands, dipping them into the bucket and lifting them to Estienne’s mouth. Estienne understood his intent and slurped the water from the performer’s outstretched hands. When the water was gone, the performer dipped his hands back in the bucket, and Estienne again drank the offered water.

It was during the third time that the performer gave Estienne water, that the bell-ringer noticed the small red wagon wheels embroidered all around the cuffs of the performer’s shirt, contrasting with the white linen of the shirt.

“What is your name?” Estienne asked, once he had drunk his fill.

“Django.” The performer answered, picking up his bucket and putting it back on his shoulder. He smiled at Estienne, then walked down the platform and disappeared into the crowd. Estienne watched him go, sad to see him leave.

The sound of heavy footfalls behind him alerted Estienne to Roland’s presence, as the tormentor knelt and untied the rope binding Estienne’s wrists together to the pillory. Estienne got up, rubbing his wrists gingerly, and walked back into the cathedral.

Estienne went up to the bell tower and rung the bells at noon as a call to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Then he stood outside, leaning against the balcony, watching the people of Paris go about their lives.

\---

Marguerite had spent the morning and afternoon following Percer’s orders, and led the search for the performer, looking alongside those men under her command. They had searched the whole city, even going so far as to send Roland and his companion Roul into people’s homes to have them searched for any sign of the performer. But their efforts had thus far proved fruitless, as not a single sign could be found of where the performer may have run off to.

The Captain was standing in the middle of the town square, and was about to turn and head down a street when she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye. She thought she had seen an old man sneak into the cathedral. Intrigued, she followed the figure inside, hiding behind a stone column while keeping her wits about her.

Django pulled his shawl from his head, allowing Wanda to jump down from his shoulders, the pipe still clutched between her teeth. The goat went trotting away, paying no mind that she was in one of the most famous cathedrals in all of France.

“Wanda, _avel kathe_!” He whispered loudly, pulling four small squares of cloth from his pocket, which hung from his belt. The goat came back, and he took the pipe from her, replacing it in his pocket and sitting on the cold stone of the cathedral floor. The goat hopped in his lap, turning around on her back and bleating up at the performer.

“ _Sa chacho, sa chacho, sygo phandel me_.” He took one cloth and placed it around one of the goat’s front hooves, tying the corners together in the front and back. This procedure was repeated on the three remaining hooves until all four hooves were covered. When this was done, the goat jumped down from the performer’s lap and ran off.

Django sighed, picked himself up off the floor, and followed his goat deeper into the cathedral. Wanda had stopped in front of one of the stained glass windows, transfixed by the dizzying colors that fell on the floor as sunlight streamed through the window. Django looked up, watching the intensity of the colors change as clouds altered the amount of sunlight that streamed through the window.

Marguerite took the opportunity to spring from her hiding place, nearly catching Django by surprise. But the performer was quick, and like the Captain, kept his wits about him. He had heard her coming, and turned around quickly, a hand flying to the knife in his belt and drawing it, clanging it against Marguerite’s sword and blocking the longer blade from entering his face.

“Hm, you’re certainly quick on your feet.” The Captain noted, sheathing her sword.

“I grew up poor, I had to be.” Django replied, sticking his knife back in his belt.

Wanda butted Marguerite in the chest, sending the Captain stumbling backwards.

“I didn’t know you had a kid.” She remarked, grimacing at the pain blooming through her chest.

“She doesn’t take kindly to strangers. Or soldiers.” Django crouched down to rub the goat’s ears.

“So I’ve noticed. Forgive me for sneaking up on you. I’m Margaret, though the French call me Marguerite. And you are?”

Django raised an eyebrow. “Is this an interrogation?”

“I believe it’s called an introduction.”

The performer rose up. “You’re not going to arrest me?”

The Captain shook her head, her dark brown braid swishing behind her. “Not as long as you’re in here. I can’t.”

The performer took a deep breath, turning this newly revealed information over in his mind. “If you’re not going to arrest me, what do you want?”

“I could start with your name.” The Captain placed a hand over the pommel of her sword.

“Django.”

“It’s beautiful. Much better than Margaret, anyway.”

The doors of the cathedral opened, and Percer breezed inside.

“Ah, very good. Now Captain, arrest him!”

Marguerite stepped in front of the performer. She turned her head and whispered to him: “Claim sanctuary.”

But the performer only narrowed his eyes at her.

“Say it!” She urged him, but still he would not speak.

“I’m waiting, Captain.” Percer’s bored voice cut through the tension.

“I’m sorry, sir, he claims sanctuary. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Then drag him outside at—”

The Archdeacon entered the church. “Percer! You will not touch him!” He placed a hand gently on Django’s shoulder as he addressed the performer. “Don’t worry. Minister Percer learned years ago to respect the sanctity of the church.”

Percer and his soldiers turned to leave, allowing Marguerite and Django to move closer to the doors. What neither of them could see, however, was that Percer had ducked around a pillar, lying in wait for the performer. When he was close enough, the judge grabbed Django’s right arm, pulling it behind his back and twisting sharply. He pressed the performer into him, his breath hot in the younger man’s ear.

“You think you’ve outwitted me, but I am a patient man, and Gypsies don’t do well inside stone walls.”

The old man leaned in even closer, inhaling the aroma of the younger man.

“What are you doing?” Django tried to get away, leaning as far from Percer as he could without exerting any pressure on his arm.

“I was just imagining a rope around that beautiful neck.” The old man ran a hand down the performer’s neck, and Django pulled further away from him.

“I know what you were imagining.” He made no attempt to hide the disgust in his voice.

“Such a clever cheat. So typical of your kind, to twist the truth and cloud the mind with unholy thoughts. Well, no matter.” Percer released the performer, making his way to the door. “You’ve chosen a magnificent prison, but it is a prison nonetheless. If you set even one foot outside, you’re mine!”

Percer pulled the door shut behind him. Django ran over to another door, only to find a group of soldiers conversing outside.

“Percer’s orders! Post a guard at every door.”

Django slammed the door shut, leaning back against it and sliding down to the floor, where he sat with his knees pulled up close to his chest. Wanda came running over to him, the sound of her hooves muffled by the cloth coverings.

“One thing, Wanda—if Percer thinks he can keep us in here, he’s wrong.”

“Don’t act rashly, child.” 

Django turned his head to see the Archdeacon lighting candles with an emunctorium.

“You caused quite a stir at the festival yesterday. It would be unwise to arouse Percer’s anger any further.”

“You saw what he did out there, letting the crowd torture that poor boy. Twice in two days! I thought…” He sighed, his hands falling in between his knees. “I thought that if just one person could stand up to him, then…maybe…What do they have against people who are different, anyway?”

The Archdeacon chuckled. Django turned his head sharply, narrowing his eyes at the old man.

“Why are you laughing at me?”

The Archdeacon smiled at the performer. “Because child, you can’t right all the wrongs in this world by yourself.”

Django stood. “Well, no one out there is going to help, I can tell you that much.” Deep within the cathedral, he could hear prayers being offered by those faithful who had gathered; asking for wealth, fame, glory, love, and blessings. He walked farther into the church, kneeling at an unoccupied kneeler, where he offered a prayer to Saint Sarah; asking her to watch over his people in their time of trial and persecution.

“And especially Pietro, Lord knows he has risked his life a dozen times to help us.”

Up in the bell tower, Estienne heard this prayer, and quietly wandered down the stairs and into the chapel, keeping himself to the shadows as he watched the performer pray. But his hiding was in vain, for one of the churchgoers spotted him, and pointed at him, yelling after Estienne as he ran back up the stairs.

“You there, bell-ringer! What are you doing down here?! Haven’t you caused enough trouble already?”

Django looked up, and out of the corner of his eye, managed to catch the edge of Estienne’s shirt as the bell-ringer bolted back up the stairs. He sprang to his feet and followed Estienne, Wanda clamoring up behind him. “Wait, come back!” But Estienne continued to evade him, until he hid behind a supporting beam to catch his breath.

“There you are.”

Estienne clutched his heart, his breathing picking up pace once more. Django’s sudden appearance had startled him. 

“I was afraid you were avoiding me on purpose.”

“Yes. I mean, no. Um, well, I uh, I have chores to do. It was nice, um…seeing you…again.” Estienne turned from him, his hands going to his cheeks, which had begun to flush red.

Django heard the bell-ringer moan as he turned away and walked deeper into the room. He followed him up a set of stairs, talking all the way.

“I’m sorry about yesterday afternoon. I had no idea who you were. Never in my life would I have…pulled you up…on the…stage…” He reached the top of the stairs, stepping up inside the tower, where he saw Estienne, hiding behind a wooden support beam. There was a model of the city, taking up an entire tabletop, and a mobile of broken pieces of colored glass, casting their light on the wooden floor. “What is this place?” He walked closer to the table, transfixed by the colors of the mobile and the repilica city. Wanda jumped up behind him, following him to the table.

“This is where I live.” Estienne explained, moving from one side of the pillar to the other.

Django turned from looking at the model of the city, with its’ intricately carved and painted buildings and townspeople.  
“Did you make all these things yourself?” He didn’t hide the wonder in his voice as he spoke. He could see that Estienne was observant and had a gift that manifested itself through art.

“Most of them.” Estienne replied quietly, looking at the ground as he spoke.

Django ran a finger along a red piece of glass. “This is beautiful.” He dropped down so he could inspect the model more closely. “If I could do this, you wouldn’t see me dancing in the street for coins.”

“But you’re a wonderful dancer.”

The performer stood up, turning to look at Estienne. “You’ve seen me?”

Estienne blushed, the color rising in his cheeks. “A few times. I like the way you—” He stomped his feet, turning his legs and hitting his thighs.

Django laughed, the sound rising up and reverberating through the bells. “Oh no.”

Estienne had shrunk back behind the pillar, his face burning with shame and unshed tears.

“Estienne, come back.”

The bell-ringer, stubborn as ever, stayed where he was, completely hidden behind the pillar. Wanda snuck around the pillar, sneaking up behind Estienne and pushing him out to where Django could see him.

“That wasn’t bad. But it’s more like this.” He stomped his feet, slapping his thighs and turning his legs. “See?”

Estienne nodded, the tears now gone from his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips.

“One day, I’ll teach you more.” He turned back to the model, and spotted an old rag covering something at the front. “What’s this?” He asked, a hand moving over to pull the rag away.

“No, wait! I…I still have to paint them, and…” Estienne moved closer to the model, but Django was faster, he plucked up the rag, smiling at the two wooden figures that he had unveiled.

“It’s the blacksmith,” he picked up the figure, admiring the fine details that had been carved into the wood. “And the baker.” He turned back around to face Estienne. “You’re very talented, Timbo.”

Estienne frowned. “Timbo?” He repeated, uncertainty in his voice.

The performer smiled. “It’s a nickname, short for Estienne.” The smile dropped from his face. “If you don’t like it, or you don’t want me to use it, I’ll drop it.”

“No, I…I like it.” Estienne looked up, smiling at the performer.

Django smiled. “I'm glad.” He turned around. “You're certainly lucky, Estienne.”

The bell-ringer frowned again. “How so?”

The performer stretched his arms out, spreading them before him. “You have all this space to yourself.”

“Well, it's not just me. There's the gargoyles, and the bells.” He looked up, smiling, before turning back to the performer. “Would you like to meet them?”

“We would love to, wouldn't we, Wanda?”

The goat, who had eaten one of Estienne's figures, bleated loudly.

Estienne led the pair further up into the tower, to the rafters where the bells hung. “This is Marie.” He said, his head barely out of the clapper’s way. “And this,” he moved to an even larger bell, “is the Grand Bell, Gabriel.”

Django stepped underneath the bell. “ _Lasho dyes_!” He called, the greeting echoing through the bell and resonating richly before slowly fading away.

Estienne buried his grin, only speaking when he was sure the smile wouldn’t be audible in his voice. “He likes you.” There was a brief pause, then Estienne asked, “Would you like to see more?”

“There’s more?” The performer looked behind him, only to be butted forward by Wanda. “Ow!” He rubbed his backside gingerly, clenching his teeth before speaking. “We’d love to.” When Estienne’s back was turned, Django turned and glared at Wanda, who stick her tongue out at him.

Estienne led them down the tower and out to the balcony. The sun was already setting, tinting the sky lavender. Down below, throughout the city, people were hurrying to return home before night came and darkness descended.

“This is stunning.” Django braced himself on the stones of the balcony, leaning out over the edge to look at the city below. “I bet the king himself doesn’t have a view like this.”

Estienne’s heart pounded in his chest and he wiped his palms on his hose, crossing his arms and placing them on the balcony, leaning against the stones.

Django tapped his fingers against the stone, a tune Estienne didn’t recognize. “I wish I could stay up here forever.” The performer confided.

“You can.” Estienne bit his tongue, wishing he could take back his words.

“No, I can’t.” The performer turned to look at Estienne, his face set grimly.

“But you have sanctuary.” Estienne pointed out, as if Django had forgotten.

“Yes, but not freedom. ‘Gypsies don’t do well inside stone walls’”. The performer frowned.

“But you’re not like other Gypsies. They’re…” Estienne paused, searching for the right word. “evil.”

Django made a face that didn’t conceal his disgust. “Who told you that?”

“Percer, my master. He raised me.” As if that explained everything.

“How could such a cruel man have raised someone like you?”

Estienne made no attempt to hide his surprise. “Cruel?! He saved my life; he took me in when no one else would. I am small, you know.”

“He told you that?”

Estienne shrugged. “Look at me.”

The performer turned to look the bell-ringer full in the face, a hand hovering over Estienne's cheek. “May I?”

Estienne nodded, and nearly melted when the performer’s hand made contact.

Django turned Estienne’s head, looking at one side of his face, then the other.

“Hmm. Hm, hm, hm.”

“What?”

“Well, I don’t see any—” The performer was now running his hand down Esteinne’s neck.

“Any what?!” Estienne demanded, his patience wearing until it was nearly as thin as he was.

“Any sign that you’re abnormal.” Django dropped his hand and looked back down at Estienne. “Not a single one. Now,” he braced his hands against the balcony stones, “you look at me. Do you think I’m evil?”

“No, not at all! You are kind, and good, and—”

“—and a _Rom_. Maybe Percer’s wrong about both of us.”

“A what?” Estienne slouched against the stones of the balcony.

The performer turned his head to Estienne, a slight smile playing on his lips. “ _Rom_. We don’t call ourselves Gypsies, that’s a _Gadje_ word.”

Estienne swallowed. “Am I…?” He stopped, trailing off, not sure how to pronounce the word.

Django’s smile grew wider. “ _Gahd-zhay_.” He enunciated slowly. “It just means anyone who isn’t _Rom_.”

Estienne took a deep breath. “You helped me twice. Now I will help you.”

“But there’s no way out. Soldiers and guards have been posted at every door.”

“We won’t be using a door.” Estienne could hear the smirk in his voice.

“You mean, we’ll just climb down?” Django looked down over the balcony, at the square and the river below.

“Sure. You carry her,” Estienne pointed to Wanda, “I’ll carry you.”

The performer regarded Estienne with a wary glance and a frown. “You’re not strong enough. I should carry you.”

It was Estienne’s turn to frown. “I’ve been ringing bells for as long as I can remember. I’m sure I’m strong enough to carry you and your goat.”

The performer sighed and shook his head, his long hair flying back and forth around his face. Then he held out his arms. “Come on Wanda.” The goat jumped into his awaiting grip, and he wound a strip of red cloth around her eyes.

“Ready?” Estienne asked, picking the performer up as one would a bride.

“As I’ll ever be.” The performer looped his right arm around the bell-ringer, his left arm curled around his goat.

“Alright, don’t be afraid.” Estienne jumped onto the stones of the balcony.

“I’m not afraid.” The performer countered. Estienne jumped from the balcony, grabbing onto a gargoyle to stop his fall.

The performer gulped. “Now I’m afraid.”

“The trick is to not look down.” Estienne swung himself from one gargoyle to another, catching the head before they could fall.

“You’ve done this before?” The performer asked, tension in his voice as he tried not to look down.

“No.” Estienne answered as he jumped from flying buttress to flying buttress, then jumped from one part of the cathedral to another, grabbing onto another gargoyle to break their fall. He then climbed down the side of the building, before jumping onto a slanted roof.

“You’re quite the acrobat.” The performer complimented the bell-ringer, patting Estienne on the head.

Estienne was thankful for the cover of darkness, for it hid the blush which rose up in his cheeks. “Thank you—” But the tile he stood on couldn’t bear the combined weight, and slid down the roof, sending the trio down with it, until Estienne jumped off before a drain. The tile flew off the roof and landed with a crash down below. The three guards patrolling the area went over to investigate, leaving the trio to climb down to a statue’s crevice. A passing guard shone his torch around the exterior of the cathedral, and the trio hide themselves as a statue of Saint Agnes; with Estienne hiding behind her head, Django kneeling at her feet, and Wanda, the blindfold now off, behind the lamb. The guard passed without seeing the trio, and they came out of their hiding places once the coast was clear.

Estienne slumped down beside Django, Wanda stood next to the performer. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“Not at all.” Django stroked Wanda’s head absently, fingernails scratching at her horns.

“I’ll never forget you, Django.” Estienne bit his lip; there was too much longing in his voice.

“Come with me.”

“What?” Estienne turned to the performer, as if he hadn’t heard him correctly.

“To the Court of Miracles. Leave this place.”

“No, I’m never going back out there again. You saw what happened yesterday and this morning. No. This is where I belong.” He reached up and touched the robe of the statue, reassuring himself that the cathedral was his sanctuary.

“Then I’ll come see you.” Django tugged at Wanda’s beard, earning a happy bleat from the goat.

“Here? But the soldiers, and Percer, and—”

Django turned his head to look at Estienne. “I’ll come at sunset.”

“At sunset I ring the evening Mass, and I clean the cloisters, then I ring the vespers, and—”

Django leaned forward and pressed his lips to Estienne’s cheek, mindful of the color that rose there as he pulled back.

“—Whatever works for you.”

“Give me your hand.”

Estienne frowned. “Why?”

“Just let me see it.” Django spoke in a reassuring voice.

Reluctantly, Estienne gave Django his hand; watching as the other man traced lines on his palm.

“If you ever need sanctuary, this will show you the way.” Django folded Estienne’s fingers into his hand.

“But how?” Estienne opened his hand, looking at the lines that had been traced there.

“You’ll know when the time comes.”

Wanda bleated a warning; guards and soldiers were coming back.

“Hurry! You must go!” Estienne watched as Django swung down a rope to the ground below, Wanda jumping into his arms. They ran off into the dark, as Estienne climbed back up to his tower. As he reached the ledge of the balcony, a hand reached out and caught his arm, pulling him onto the balcony.

“I’m looking for the Gypsy boy. Have you seen him?”

Estienne felt his blood boil, and he swung at the Captain of the Guard, who backed away into a tower. “No soldiers! Sanctuary! Get out!”

“Wait! All I—”

Estienne grabbed a torch and swung it at the soldier, who climbed down the stairs backward. “Go!”

“I mean him no harm!”

Estienne growled as he swung the torch again. “Go!”

The soldier drew and swung a sword, striking it against the torch and pinning it to the tower wall. Estienne grabbed the soldier by the chest, lifting them a few feet off the ground.

“You tell him, from me, that I didn’t mean to trap him here, but it was the only way to save his life. Will you tell him that?”

Estienne didn’t respond, only drew his face closer to the soldier’s.

“Will you?” The soldier demanded.

Estienne nodded. “If you go. Now!”

“I’ll go. Now, will you put me down, please?”

Estienne put Marguerite down gently, and the Captain turned to leave, then turned back to face the bell-ringer.

“Oh, and one more thing. Tell Django he’s very lucky.”

Estienne knit his eyebrows together. “Why?”

“To have a friend like you.” The Captain turned and left at last.

Estienne climbed back to his tower and sat among the statues, telling his favorites, Linwinda and Saint Drogo, of Django, and the kindness he had been shown. Then he rung the bells, calling the faithful to recite the Angelus. Below, in the transept, the Archdeacon led group of hooded monks in chanting the Confiteor.

“ _Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti, Beatae Mariae semper Virgini, Beato Michaeli archangelo, Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis_.”

\---

In the Palace of Justice, Percer was on his knees before a prie-dieu.

“Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous man. Of my virtue I am justly proud. Beata Maria, you know I’m so much purer than the common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd.” He got up, standing before a fire at the end of the room. “Then tell me Maria, why I see him dancing there, why his eyes still scorch my soul. I see him, I feel him, the sun caught in his hair, is blazing in me out of all control. This burning desire is turning me to sin.” 

He turned around, there was a figure sitting behind him, shadows cast all over their body, except their eyes, which glowed eerily in the moonlight.

A door at the opposite end of the room opened, and a soldier spoke. “Minister Percer, the Gypsy has escaped.”

“What?!”

“He’s nowhere in the cathedral. He’s g—”

The guard fell to the floor, a crossbow dart lodged in his throat.

A crossbow clattered at Percer’s feet, the figure gone.

“But how, an—nevermind. I’ll find him. I’ll find him if I have to burn down all of Paris!” 

He retreated to another wall of the room. “God have mercy on him. God have mercy on me. But he will be mine or he will burn!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> avel kathe: Vlax, come here
> 
> Sa chacho, sa chacho, sygo phandel me: Vlax, all right, all right, I tie fast
> 
> Lasho dyes: Vlax, good day
> 
> The pronunciation of gadje was taken from [this list](http://rrojasandribbons.tumblr.com/post/159259440705/commonly-mispronounced-romani-things).


	3. The Soul Itself

“Attention!”

All the soldiers put their visors up and clicked their heels together as Percer got out of his carriage.

“Good morning, sir.”

The old judge groaned and held his head as Marguerite raised an eyebrow.

“Are you feeling well, sir?”

“I had a little _trouble_ with the fireplace.” The judge spoke curtly.

“I can see that.” The Captain suppressed the urge to laugh, for the old man had ash on his face, and one of his hands seemed to have slight burns, though they were nothing too serious. But she kept her mouth shut as she stood in front of the men under her command. “Your orders, sir?”

“Find the Gypsy boy.”

\---

“Timbo.”

Estienne whirled around too quickly, smacking his head against Marie and falling to the ground. Eventually he blinked his eyes open, and saw a blurry shape above him. He rubbed his eyes, a dull pain pinged all throughout his head, like the steady peal of bells. He held his head as he raised himself to a sitting position.

“Good morning Timbo.”

Estienne groaned, watching as Django knelt down next to him. He blinked rapidly. “Django what—”

“Sh!” Django clapped a hand over Estienne’s mouth. “I’m sorry my friend, but this was the only place I could think to hide. Somewhere Percer and his men won’t think to look.” He removed his hand from Estienne’s mouth. Estienne didn’t want him to move his hand, but he didn’t protest either.

“You’re being hunted.” Estienne understood, Django’s nod confirming his suspicion.

The performer slouched back against a wooden support beam. “You wouldn’t happen to have any food, would you?”

Estienne glanced at the table where the remnants of his meager lunch lay. Django followed his gaze, licking his lips when he caught sight of the food.

“Help yourself.” Estienne gestured to the table.

“You’re sure—” Django turned back to look at Estienne, who nodded.

Django was up and at the table in a flash, tearing apart a loaf of bread and reaching for Estienne’s untouched cup, from which he tentatively took a sip. When he realized the cup had been filled with wine, he jumped up, nearly knocking the cup to the ground.

“ _Ka o fóro zhas, sastri bikinas, hai but love las. Ándo bírto zhas, thai mol piyas, amáre love das_.” He turned his legs and hit his chest, slapping his thighs before taking another sip of wine. “ _Gilyabel_ , Timbo!” He danced more, working his way ever closer to Estienne. The bell-ringer felt his face warm as he ran to the performer.

“Django, please, you must be quiet! If you’re discovered, Percer will have you killed.” _I couldn’t bear to see you hang._

The performer dropped his voice to a whisper, but continued dancing, his movements now muffled as he quietly placed one foot on the ground, then the other. “ _Ándo bírto zhas, thai mol piyas, amáre love das…_ ”

“What language is that?” Estienne whispered the question.

“Not mine.” The performer answered in a whisper, matching Estienne’s in volume. “At least the dialect isn’t.” He stopped dancing and dropped down by Estienne. “The others, at least some of them, they sing that song. I just picked it up from them.”

“Where’s Wanda?”

“With Pietro. He insisted she stay with him, at least while I’m here.”

“Oh.” Estienne looked at his palm, where the performer had traced a map just the other night. “How…how long do you think you’ll be here?”

“I’ll head into the countryside tomorrow, throw off the soldiers.”

\---

In the countryside, Marguerite’s men searched a house, and were about to leave after finding nothing when Roland uncovered a trapdoor. After clapping the five people in irons and lining them up outside, Percer made them an offer.

“Ten pieces of silver for the Gypsy Django.”

He held out the money from where he sat, mounted on his horse, but no one took it. He turned to Roland, “Lock them up!”, and rode off, Marguerite riding next to him.

On a bridge over the Seine, a soldier threw belongings off of the top of an _ande_ as another soldier seized the reins of the horse that had pulled the wagon, leading the animal down the bridge. Two additional soldiers pushed the wagon into the river. Six people floated to the surface, some buoyed up by barrels, others holding on those who were older.

“Twenty pieces of silver for the Gypsy Django.”

Once again, no one took the offer. “Take them away!” Percer wheeled his horse around, leaving Marguerite fuming behind him, a small group of men with her.

They searched the countryside again, coming upon a miller and his family.

Percer stood before the miller. “Have you been harboring Gypsies?”

“Our home is always open to the weary traveler. Please have mercy on us.” The miller was on his knees before the judge, hands grasping at his robes.

“You and your family are under house arrest until I can get to the bottom of this.” Percer turned and left the house, using one of the soldier’s spears to bar the door behind him. He mounted his horse and rode away from the house. “We’re leaving.” He told the soldiers and guards, who fell into line behind Marguerite, who remained where she was.

“Aren’t you coming, Captain?”

Marguerite thought she saw someone out of the corner her eye. “Yes…” She threw up two fingers and moved her hand forward.

“Wait! Thirty pieces! I’ll give you the boy for thirty silver pieces!” A figure threw back the hood of their cloak, revealing a stock of dark brown hair that was slowly silvering at the temples.

“Judas Iscariot!” A woman’s voice cried out, and a young woman ran to the man, spitting in his face. The man seized the woman’s wrists.

“That’s enough out of you.” He leaned in close to her face, lowering his voice so only she could hear him. “ _Džas kxere_ , Natalya.”

The woman pulled out of his grasp and turned on her heel, her long red hair streaming behind her.

The man strode up to Percer, jutting out his chin when he reached the judge, who looked down at the man before him.

“You want thirty pieces of silver…for a boy.” The judge sounded more bored than surprised.

“Yes, I can deliver him to you tomorrow.” The man held out a hand, expectantly awaiting payment.

The judge raised an eyebrow. “And you are…?”

“Ah, how careless of me!” The man bowed. “Pietro Maximoff, King of the Roma.” He straightened, smiling, and held up his hand once more, slowly uncurling his fingers and laying his palm flat.

Percer snapped his fingers, and a soldier walked up to him, counted out thirty silver pieces, and handed them to the judge, who gave them to Pietro. Pietro grinned wickedly, the money gleaming off his face and giving his teeth and eyes a sinister glow. He bowed, slipping the coins into his pocket as he did so.

“Thank you. You’ll have the boy by tomorrow, I can assure you of that.”

The words had scarcely left his lips before he disappeared into the foggy night.

Marguerite turned her head toward the judge. “Sir?”

“Return to the Palace of Justice at once.”

\---

“Who's that?” Django pointed to another statue.

“Saint Roux.” Estienne answered without blinking.

“And that?” The performer pointed to a different statue.

“Saint Margaret, of England.”

Django sat up, propping himself back on one arm. “An English saint in a French cathedral?”

It was Estienne’s turn to sit up. “Her patronage is over the dying. Besides, I don’t get to pick which saints get statues made of them.”

The performer smiled and settled back down. “No, I didn’t think you do.”

Estienne remained sitting up, watching the performer, a slight smile on his lips. He suddenly had the powerful urge to kiss the performer, and lowered himself back onto the hard wooden floor of the bell tower. He lay right next to the performer, but kept himself still, to keep himself from acting upon his feelings.

\---

After searching for the performer throughout all of Paris, Marguerite finally received word of a brothel, which sometimes hid runaways and troublemakers from the law. But when she questioned the madam, the woman denied everything. Furious, Marguerite set off for the countryside, determined to right one injustice.

“Ah Captain, you arrived just in time.” Percer’s voice caused Marguerite to turn her head sharply. There, in front of the miller’s house, was the old judge, a group of soldiers and guards armed with crossbows forming a wall in front of him. Percer held a burning torch out to the Captain of the Guard.

“Burn it.”

“What?!”

“Until it smolders. These people are lying and must be made examples of. A lesson needs to be learned here.” He handed the torch to Marguerite.

Marguerite took the torch. “With all due respect sir, I was not trained to murder the innocent.”

“Yes, but you were trained to follow orders, Captain.”

Seeing a barrel of water by the door of the house, Marguerite moved toward it and dropped the torch inside, extinguishing the flames immediately.

“Insolent coward.” Percer seized another torch from a soldier and held the flames to the windmill, which caught fire. The house was next to catch, as the turning blades of the windmill set the thatched roof ablaze. Marguerite jumped through the window, grabbed the two children and kicked the door down, before she ran the children a safe distance away before the house and windmill collapsed. The parents followed the Captain out of their burning home just before it fell, and Marguerite handed the children back to them before Roland snuck up behind her and hit her over the head, knocking the Captain to her knees. Percer rode up to the Captain, as she was being dragged up to him by Roland and another soldier.

“The punishment for insubordination is death. You threw away a promising career.”

The Captain raised her head, not enough to look at the old judge, but enough so he would be able to hear her. “Consider it my highest honor.” She heard the sound of metal on leather, felt the cold steel of a sword as one was placed to the back of her neck. The weapon was raised, Roland positioned to decapitate her, when Percer’s horse reared and threw his master off. Marguerite elbowed Roland and knocked the other soldier out, grabbing the reins of Percer’s bolting horse and swinging up into the saddle. She was almost to the nearby bridge when showers of arrows began to rain down on her.

“Hit her, not my horse!” Percer yelled as more arrows rained down.

Marguerite was about to cross the bridge when an arrow pierced her back and she fell off the horse and into the water below. The soldiers stood on the bridge and continued firing into the river.

“Save your arrows. Find the boy! If you have to burn the city to the ground, so be it.”

\---

Back in a now-burning Paris, Percer was approached by a guard.

“Sir! We’ve looked everywhere, and there is still no sign of the Gypsy boy.”

Percer turned to the side. “I had the entire cathedral surrounded, guards at every door. There was no way he could have escaped, unless…” He turned to look at the cathedral, where the bells rung, their sound ringing through the city.

\---

Natalya had crept, undetected, to the river, and jumped in. She surfaced, pulling the unconscious Captain behind her until she reached the nearby bank. She had to get Marguerite somewhere safe, somewhere no one would think to look.

\---

“Estienne?” Django raised himself up again. “Are you alright?”

Estienne opened his eyes. He took one look at the look on Django’s face and sprang up, the thin blanket flying and falling and folding itself over their legs.

“I…I’m fine.” He put his hands over his cheeks, knowing they were turning red.

“Are you sure?”

Estienne nodded.

“Django?”

At the sound of the unknown female voice, Estienne whirled around, squinting at the sight of the red-haired woman. He was about to ask Django who she was, but he was already up and embracing the woman. Estienne felt his stomach turn.

“Natalya?!” They broke apart. “What are you doing here?”

The woman gestured behind her, where a figure walked in, carrying a body on their shoulder.

“This is—” Natalya began.

“Marguerite.” Django breathed.

“Yes. She’s wounded, and a fugitive like you. She can’t go on much longer. I…” Natalya swallowed. “I knew she’d be safe here.”

“How did you get up here?”

“The Archdeacon let us in.”

Django raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the right. “And Pietro?”

“Sent me home. He…” Natalya bit her lip. “Be wary around Pietro, Django.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just…” Natalya released her lip from between her teeth. “Stay away from the Court for a bit, alright?”

Frowning, Django nodded and turned from the redhead to face Estienne. “Is there anywhere we can put Marguerite?”

The bell-ringer got up, stumbling over his own feet and nearly falling on his face. “Here, put her here.” He pointed to the straw-stuffed mattress he had just vacated. The figure walked over to the mattress and lay the unconscious woman upon it. She wore only a tunic and hose, her hair spread across the pillow like an aquatic creature.

“Where is her armor?” Estienne had never before seen the Captain without her armor.

“We had to remove it, or risk being caught. It was risky enough coming here.”

“Natalya, Luis, _parikerav. Te na tume kodo kris dikhel, te Pietro dikhel tume duj kathe…tume zhanel voj xolanǒl_.” Django tucked a strand of red hair behind the woman’s ear, his hand coming to rest on her cheek. “ _Akana phirel_.”

The pair walked out the door leading to the other tower, not wanting to risk being caught on the stairs.

Marguerite stirred, Django knelt by her side, waiting for her to fully regain consciousness. She soon did so, and attempted to sit up, but at the feeling of Django’s hand on her shoulder, she slumped back down.

“Where were you wounded?”

She turned, pointing at a space between the shoulder blade and the armpit, where there was a small gash in her tunic, the entry point of the arrowhead. “There’s a weak point in the armor there.”

Django motioned to Estienne. “Bring me a needle and thread.” He turned to Marguerite. “I’m going to need you to take your shirt off. I’m sorry, but it’s the only way I can possibly get to the wound to treat it.”

“You know how to treat wounds?” Marguerite crossed her arms over her chest and pulled her tunic up over head, putting it down next to her.

Django shrugged. “I can sew.” He took the needle and thread from Estienne, who didn’t look at Marguerite as he handed the thread and needle over. 

The Captain turned on her side, revealing the gash.

“This is going to hurt.” Django warned before piercing the needle through one side of the wound. Marguerite sucked in a breath through her clenched teeth.

Estienne had retreated outside, to talk to Louis, a gargoyle otherwise known as _L'Alchimiste_. He returned to the tower when he thought the surgery was over. As soon as he was close enough to the pair, he immediately turned around.

“Estienne! It’s alright, she’s all stitched up.”

The sound of footsteps came from the stairs below.

“Quick, put her under the table!”

Django dragged the now-sleeping Captain underneath the table holding Estienne’s model of the city.

“There’s a spare room, in the back. You stay there until I come and get you.”

The performer nodded and did as Estienne instructed him.

Then Estienne waited in shadows, waited, until he saw Percer’s hat at the top of the stairs. Then the bell-ringer emerged from his hiding place, and brought the cups and plate and wooden slab and set them on the small round table, just as Percer appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Oh, Master. I didn’t think you would be coming tonight—”

“I’m never too busy to share a meal with you, dear boy. I brought you a treat.” Percer reached into the basket and brought out a single strawberry, which Estienne lunged for. “Angh, angh!” The old judge swatted at his charge’s outstretched hands, and Estienne fell back, rubbing his hands to soothe the sting. “Self control, Estienne. It’s important to master the art.” He sat at the small round table. Estienne shoved the entire strawberry into his mouth, stem and all. “And manners as well.”

Esteinee spit the strawberry out. “Thank you, Master.”

Percer gestured back to Estienne, indicating that he could eat. Estienne bit into the fruit, staining his mouth with the sweet juices.

“Is there something troubling you, Estienne?” The judge sat at the table, placing the basket between the two plates and removing a bottle filled with olive oil, as well as a small loaf of bread.

Estienne finished the strawberry. “No.”

“Oh, but there is. I know there is.” The old judge got up and made his way to the table where the model of the city stood, Estienne following behind. He spotted a figurine of the performer. “Is this one new? It’s very good. It looks very much like the Gypsy boy. I know.” A vicious look crossed his face. “You helped him escape!” He slammed his hands down on the model, sending the figure rolling across the painted cobblestones. Estienne stumbled backward and fell, nearly too shocked and frightened to speak.

“But…I—” He finally managed to stammer out.

“And now all of Paris is burning because of you!”

Estienne offered the first explanation he could think of. “He was kind to me, Master.”

Percer brought his fists down upon the model again, this time smashing a house. “You idiot! That wasn’t kindness, it was cunning! He’s a Gypsy! Gypsies are not capable of real love! Think, boy!” The old judge recomposed himself. “But what chance could a poor, misshapen child like you have against his heathen treachery?” He didn’t wait for a reply before continuing. “Well, never you mind, Estienne. He will be out of our lives soon enough. I will free you from his evil charms, he will torment you no longer. Have no fear, my boy. We will find him and capture him. The wicked shall not go unpunished.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know where his hideout is, and tomorrow, at dawn, I shall attack with a thousand loyal men at my command.” He left his charge then, picking up the basket on his way out. When Estienne was certain his master was gone, he crouched down by the table, taking hold of Marguerite’s arms and gently dragging her out from underneath the table. It wasn’t until he had gotten her to his bed that the bell-ringer remembered that the Captain had removed her tunic for her surgery, and had not replaced it before Percer arrived. Turning his head, Estienne went to the spare room, giving a small rap at the door, which opened for him almost immediately.

“You can come out now.” Estienne felt stupid saying that.

The door creaked open wider, and the performer stepped from the shadows. “Is Marguerite alright?”

“She’s fine, come see for yourself.” Estienne lead the way back to his bed. “See?” He turned so he faced away from the Captain.

“Why will you not look at her?”

“It wouldn’t be right.” Estienne kept his head turned, his voice carrying throughout the bell tower.

“‘Wouldn’t be right.’” The performer echoed Estienne’s words while silently working his sleeves off, followed by the rest of his shirt, which he pulled up over his head. He knelt by the Captain, gently propped her up and put the shirt on her, set her gently back down and raised himself up and stood once he was finished. “There.”

Estienne turned his head to face the performer, and felt heat rise to his face. His eyes roamed around the performer’s torso, all lean muscle, coming to rest on the hard core of his stomach before snapping back up to his face. He remembered the words which he had been taught from Damian’s _Liber Gomorrhianus_ : ‘…some sin with themselves alone; some by the hands of others; others between the thighs; and finally, others commit the complete act against nature…’. The bell-ringer could hear blood pound in his ears as he took a step back, then another and another. The low _thum thum thum_ of blood was nothing like the ringing which usually echoed in his ears.

In what seemed to be one motion, the performer had crossed the room to the small round table, had taken up the bottle of olive oil, and was halfway up the stairs leading further up into the tower when he turned around.

“Are you coming?”

Estienne regained his composure. “Y…yes.” He followed Django up the stairs, closing the door behind them when they were both at the top of the flight. There were two mattresses on the floor, one on top of the other. The one directly on the floor was stuffed with straw, the other, lying on top, stuffed with goose feathers.

Django put the olive oil on the floor by the mattresses as Estienne moved to one of the walls, standing with his back pressed to it in an effort to calm his nerves. When Django straightened up, he saw the bell-ringer up against the wall, breathing deeply, his ears flushed a deep red. He walked to Estienne, a hand going to the wall to steady himself. “It’s alright if you’re scared.”

Estienne drew a shaky breath through his nose. “I’m not scared.” He drew another deep breath. “I’m terrified.” He turned then, and crushed his mouth against Django’s. The performer drew his head back, eyes widening in surprise, but did not break contact. Something warm prickled under his skin as Estienne moved his hands to his waist, leading him closer to the mattress. Estienne finally broke away when Django began rucking up his shirt, until the performer plucked at the slit neck and pulled the shirt up over the bell-ringer’s head. Django’s eyes widened when he saw the thin brigandine Estienne wore. The bell-ringer reached up and unfastened the straps, pulling them through the buckles. He shrugged his shoulders and let the would-be armor fall to the floor with a muffled _clink_. Estienne felt the performer’s eyes upon him, and moved his hands up to cover himself, but was stopped when Django’s hands clasped over his wrists, slowing moving the bell-ringer’s hands down with a steady, deliberate force. Then they switched positions, so Django was leading Estienne to the mattress, and when Estienne’s legs brushed against the rough wool of the top mattress, he sat on the feather-stuffed mattress, Django’s lips back on his as the performer nudged the bell-ringer’s knees apart and stood between his legs. The performer broke away to kneel down and untie the leather strips of Estienne’s shoes, easing them off and setting them to the far side of the floor before removing his own shoes.

He straightened and turned his attention to Estienne’s hose, attacking the point just below the navel. He grabbed one end of the tied linen cord with his teeth, pulling until the bow came undone, then slipping his tongue underneath the knot and pulling his head back. The hose loosened, allowing the performer to focus on the two points of the codpiece. Once those points were undone, the performer reached up and pulled the hose and braies down the bell-ringer’s waist, until they pooled around his ankles, and were thrown into a heap next to their shoes and Estienne’s shirt. Then he loosened the points on his own hose and pulled down his own braies, throwing them into the growing pile of discarded clothes on the other side of the mattresses.

Estienne looked him up and down, his chest flushing a light pink. He licked his lips and swallowed, the words nearly sticking in his throat. “You are an angel.”

Django smiled and shook his head.

“If not an angel, then a saint.” Estienne reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind the performer’s ear. “‘A lovely brown boy with clustering hair and red lips,’” Estienne bit his lip and cast his eyes to the side.

The performer reached down and took the top off the bottle of oil, then straightened. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

Estienne nodded, his toes curling in anticipation as his eyes snapped up to meet Django’s. “More than anything.”

The performer kissed the bell-ringer as he dipped two fingers into the olive oil, wiping them on the lip of the bottle to remove any excess oil. “This isn’t supposed to hurt. If it does, you tell me, and we’ll stop, alright?”

The bell-ringer nodded again, a hand on the back of the performer’s neck, guiding him in for another kiss. When they broke apart, it was the performer who spoke.

“Lie down.” He put a hand on Estienne’s shoulder, gently pushing him backwards onto the mattress. “This will be easier if you bend your knees.”

Estienne bent his knees and raised his legs so his feet flanked the performer’s hips.

“ _Nuper rosarum flores, Ex dono pontificis, Hieme licet horrida_ …”

Estienne placed a hand on the performer’s shoulder to reassure him, and to maintain his own balance. “It’s just the choir. Dufay’s _Nuper rosarum flores_. They must be warming up.”

The performer nodded in understanding, bringing his fingers to Estienne’s crevice and running the oil-slick up and down. Estienne covered his mouth to stifle a moan. When the performer found what he had been looking for, he pressed his finger in ‘til the first knuckle. Estienne groaned, trying to get used to the strange feeling.

“You alright?” The performer snapped his eyes to lock with the bell-ringers’.

Estienne nodded, and Django slid his finger all the way in, waiting before adding the second ‘til the first knuckle. He waited until Estienne nodded again before adding the rest of the second finger, stretching and scissoring before withdrawing both fingers. Estienne whined, removing his hand from over his mouth to grip at the coarse wool of the mattress. The fingers were gone for only a moment before they were put back, this time with a third finger added. These three fingers stretched and twisted, and Estienne moved his hand to cover his mouth again, but was stopped by the look that the performer gave him. An eyebrow raised as his fingers, slick with oil, continued moving.

He placed his other hand on the bell-ringer’s left hip before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Estienne’s brow. When he withdrew his fingers a second time, he heard another whine escape the bell-ringer’s lips. Django shushed him, placing a trail of kisses down Estienne’s neck to the hollow at the base of the bell-ringer’s throat as the performer dipped his index finger and thumb in the oil, wiping them on the lip of the bottle. Estienne watched as Django pulled his foreskin back and slicked his dick with oil, both biting their bottom lip and flushing red. The performer released his lip as he bent down and kissed the bell-ringer, his stomach brushing against Estienne, who shuddered at the increased heat.

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Django nibbled at Estienne’s earlobe, sucking the soft flesh into his mouth.

“ _On va voir_. Now get on with it.”

The performer let the bell-ringer’s earlobe drop from his mouth as he moved back, shifting his weight on his feet. With his other hand still on his dick, he pushed in, slowly, relentlessly.

Estienne winced at the sting that rose up, but breathed until it subsided and melted away. The performer waited until Estienne nodded to put first one knee on the mattress, then the other. It was only then that he began moving, slow and steady, an unbroken rhythm setting in.

“A…” “Alleluia…” The choir had finished the first song and had moved to a chant.

“Pérotin’s _Alleluia Nativitas_.”

“How do you know all these songs?” Django bit his lip to keep from laughing at the face Estienne made at him.

“I’ve lived up here for twenty years. I have the entire Mass memorized.”

The performer smiled as he brushed Estienne’s hair from his face.

“…beautiful as gold, Which above all others bears the crown, As is recognised throughout the universe…”

“You know Dufay’s _Dona gentile_?” Estienne cocked an eyebrow up at him.

Django shrugged. “Luis can play the tune on the lute, I picked up the words walking the streets.”

“You could have come here. The choir sings a lot of Dufay.”

“I would have. If I had known you then.”

Estienne smiled as his cheeks reddened even more. “ _Je t’adore_.”

“Do you know Villon?”

Estienne shook his head. “I can read a bit of the Gospels, and I know some hymns.”

The performer laughed. “More than father…who’s been to me kinder…So good in song, so good in speech, So pleasing in word and in deed…I think Villon must have been describing you.”

Estienne’s heart felt like it would pound out of his chest as Django pressed their mouths together again. Their lips met again and again until there was no air left between them. Only then did Django pull back. The performer’s smile turned into a smirk as he placed two fingers of his right hand on Estienne’s dick, rubbing in time with his thrusts. That was all it took for Estienne, who came spilling into Django’s hand, chanting his name like an old litany.

The performer followed not long after, his thrusts becoming erratic as Estienne clenched tighter around him, mumbling the bell-ringer’s name along with a mixture of words in his language, closing his eyes as he released into Estienne.

It was the performer, being more experienced, who came down first. Slowly, he removed himself, despite the half-hearted protests Estienne gave. He got up, and found an old cloth by the bottle of oil, one that Estienne used to clean the bells and left up in the loft. He stoppered the bottle, and brought the cloth back to the mattress, wiping at the mess between Estienne’s thighs, as well as his own hands and fingers. Then he gave the cloth to the bell-ringer, who wiped himself down and threw the cloth on the floor, getting to his knees and pulling the performer back down on the rough wool of the mattress. The bell-ringer grappled with the blanket, pulling it over them, their heads resting on the same pillow, their hands clasped together.

“ _Je t’aime tant_.” Estienne whispered, placing a hand over the performer’s heart.

“ _Kamao tut_.” The performer whispered back, a hand going to the bell-ringer’s cheek.

Their lips met briefly, quick and fleeting. When they broke apart, Estienne’s eyelids were heavy with sleep. Django withdrew his hand and placed a kiss to the bell-ringer’s cheek. “ _Sovel lasho, kamel_.” He waited until Estienne was fast asleep before climbing off the mattress, placing the blanket more securely around the bell-ringer. He stumbled in the dark, groping around the room for his clothes, until he had his braies and hose and shoes back on. Then he opened the door as quietly as possible, closing it gently behind him before descending down the dark stairs. When the performer rounded the corner he found Margurite sleeping, dressed in her tunic, his own shirt folded and resting on the small round table. He went to the table, taking up his shirt and putting it on, pointing it to his hose. He draped his shawl around his shoulders, tying the corners together, and escaped through the tower door, climbing down the cathedral as Estienne had done once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Django sings is [this](https://68.media.tumblr.com/95b1ffad89f5d601df37636b7fac2198/tumblr_ney7fpiOv61rnuip5o1_1280.jpg), taken from [Ronald Lee's Kalderash-English dictionary](https://books.google.com/books?id=qHGoiNjIIBkC&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=false).
> 
> Gilyabel: Vlax, sing
> 
> ande: Kalderash, wagon
> 
> Džas kxere: North Russian Romani, go home
> 
> parikerav: Vlax, thank you
> 
> Te na tume kodo kris dikhel, te Pietro dikhel tume duj kathe…tume zhanel voj xolanǒl: Vlax, but you that court see, if Pietro see you two here...you know he get angry
> 
> Akana phirel: Vlax, now walk
> 
> The bit of Peter Damian's _Liber Gomorrhianus_ that Estienne remembers was found via the [Internet History Sourcebooks Project](https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/source/homo-damian1.asp).
> 
> A lovely brown boy with clustering hair and red lips: Oscar Wilde quote
> 
> On va voir: French, we will see
> 
> Je t’adore: French, I adore you
> 
> Je t’aime tant: French, I love you so much
> 
> Kamao tut: Vlax, I love you
> 
> Sovel lasho, kamel: Vlax, sleep good, love
> 
> Django quotes from Villon's [_Le Testament_](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/francois-villon).


	4. The Thread of the Infinite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now features art by the wonderfully talented rancorousrocker! Check out her blog [here](http://rancorousrocker.tumblr.com). The art can be viewed in a post [here](http://rancorousrocker.tumblr.com/post/164339634370/big-bang-piece-for-theprinceofprinces-s-fanfic-a), or by scrolling past the chapter ending, just before the author's notes.

Estienne awoke in the middle of the night, the absence of ringing in his head often woke him. He got up from the mattress and dressed, going blindly to the door, throwing it open and walking down the stairs. Marguerite was awake and putting on her other shoe when the bell-ringer rounded the corner.

“You’re awake.” Estienne said smartly.

“We have to find the Court of Miracles before daybreak. If Percer gets there first…are you coming with me?” The Captain looked up from latching her shoe.

“I can’t.”

“I thought you were Django’s friend.” Marguerite's hands flew to her head, parting her hair and beginning to braid one large plait.

“I…” The bell-ringer bit his lip. “Percer’s my master. I can’t disobey him again.”

“He stood up for you. You’ve got a funny way of showing gratitude.”

Estienne turned away from the Captain, facing the bells he knew so well.

Marguerite finished braiding her hair and rose from the mattress. “Well, I’m not going to sit by and watch Percer massacre innocent people. You do what you think is right.” She left through the inner door of the tower.

Estienne turned to the statues of Saint Drogo and Linwinda, who regarded the bell-ringer with their stone-set faces. He grabbed his cloak from the hands of Linwinda’s statue. “I must be out of my mind.” He tied the cloak closed around his neck as he left the bell tower once again.

Marguerite stepped out of the cathedral when Estienne stepped in front of her.

“Marguerite! I’m coming with you!”

“I’m glad you changed your mind.”

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for him.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, but he said this would help me find him.”

The bell-ringer threw his hand out, palm up, at the Captain, who took hold of his small wrist.

“Good, good, good! Ahhh. Great.” She studied his palm, turning his hand over. “What is it?”

“The other night, he drew lines over the lines in my hand. In some sort of coal.” He looked at his palm, pointing to a cross in the middle of two straight lines. “That’s the cathedral. And over here,” he pointed to an x on the other side of the cross, “is where we find him.” He looked up at Marguerite. “It’s a map.”

“I’ve never seen a map that looks like this…”

The two began to talk over each other.

“Look, I’ve lived up in the bell tower for twenty years, and I know what the city looks like from above, and this is it!”

“Look, I've been doing battle across two continents and I have a pretty good idea of what a map looks like, and this is not it!”

The Captain and the bell-ringer both took a deep breath and recomposed themselves.

“All right. You say it’s a map, fine, it’s a map. If we’re going to find Django, we’re going to have to work together.”

Estienne looked the Captain up and down before nodding. “All right.”

They headed off in the direction of the graveyard, where they found a cross inscribed on one of the tombstones.

“This looks like the symbol on your hand.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Hm, I’m not sure.” Marguerite held the torch closer to the stone. “I can make out an inscription, but it may take a while to translate it.”

Estienne shoved the stone off the top of the grave, revealing a flight of stone stairs leading downward.

“Yes, well.” Marguerite cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “Or we could just go down those stairs.”

They descended the stairs, until they ended in stale water up to their ankles. Skeletons lined either side of the narrow walls of the crypt.

“You think this is the Court of Miracles?” Estienne asked, his cloak balled up in his hands to prevent it from getting wet.

“Offhand, I would say this is the Court of Ankle-Deep Sewage. This must be the old catacombs.” Marguerite held the torch high, illuminating the path ahead of them.

“I just want to Django and get back to the bell tower. I don’t want any more trouble.”

“Speaking of trouble, we should have run into some by now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know: a guard, a trap of some kind, or an ambush.”

But as they walked deeper and deeper into the catacombs, no such ambush came. Instead, they saw light, and as they made their way closer to the end of the tunnel, they heard whispering and drums.

“ _Ara lausatz, lausat, lausat_!”

Pipes and drums and sticks joined in as a woman sang lines, followed by the whole group singing the chorus: “ _Ara lausatz, lausat, lausat_!”

When that song ended, another began. A familiar-looking man sat on a folding chair, a small instrument across his lap, hitting at the strings with small curved hammers made of wood. As he played, he sang: “ _Na co pojdem domov, Načo pôjdem domov, ked´nemám nikoho. Otec sa mi žení mama tá je v čiernej zemi, načo pôjdem domov_.”

After that song, a man from the assembled group walked out, strumming a lute. Estienne recognized the tune as Dufay’s _Dona Gentile_.

“ _Lasho singa phral_!” A voice shouted from the crowd. Estienne’s heart pounded in his chest, the voice sounded all too familiar.

“ _Sandunga tacué plas_.” The musician walked back into the group, trading places with another man on his way.

“Dja-!” Estienne bit his tongue to keep himself from saying the name, but watched as the performer strode to the center of the space up in front of the crowd, dressed in black hose and shoes, his blackwork-stitched shirt on once more. The pipes and drums played once again as the performer shook the tambourine in one hand, as the crowd cheered, then fell silent as they watched him move with the rhythm of the drums and pipes. He moved faster than Estienne had ever seen him. When he finished, the tambourine was on the ground, having been long discarded, he was breathing heavily, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened off his brow, not unlike the sweat that had gathered there a few hours earlier. Estienne wasn’t aware of the color rising in his cheeks until Marguerite pointed it out, then his hands flew to his cheeks quickly, trying to rub away the heat.

“Ah, we have guests!” The man who had played the hammered instrument stepped forward. Estienne now realized why he had looked so familiar; he had been the Lord of Misrule at the Festival of Fools.

Django made to leave, but was stopped by the other man’s arm around his shoulders. “Django, I believe you know our guests, don’t you _čhāvo_?”

The performer turned around to face Estienne and Marguerite. “Yes.” He pointed to Marguerite, “This is the soldier who saved the miller’s family,” he pointed to Estienne, “and Estienne helped me escape the cathedral.”

Marguerite spoke up. “We came to warn you! Percer knows your hiding place. He’s attacking at dawn with a thousand men.”

A cry rose up among the crowd as the people scrambled around the Court.

“All right, keep calm!” Pietro turned back to the two. “How do you know this?”

“Master told me.”

“Oh, why should we believe either of you! You’re Percer’s slave! And her, she’s Captain of the Guard, a soldier, and we don’t trust soldiers!”

“I’m not a soldier anymore. I defied direct orders from Percer.” Marguerite looked out into the crowd.

Luis spoke up. “Pietro, if this is true, we don’t have much time!”

Natalya came up by Luis. “We need to leave.”

“I thought we’d have had few years here at least. Yes, we must move quickly…Yes now! Django! Go pack now!”

Estienne looked to Django. “Pack? You’re going?”

Pietro interjected. “Of course he is. No matter what, we won’t leave one of our own behind.”

“Thank you, Pietro.”

Estienne went to the performer’s side. “Django, no.”

“You took a great risk coming here. It may not show, but we’re grateful.”

Estienne gripped the hem of the performer’s shirt. “I’ll hide you again. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Estienne, no.”

“Maybe in the crypts. Or up…”

“Thank you, Estienne, but it would be too dangerous. Not just for me, but for you too.”

The bell-ringer frowned, his mouth drawn into a tight line and his brows knit together. “Then I’ll come with you.”

Pietro spoke again. “You?! Go with us?!”

“You can’t, Estienne.”

“Why not?”

“To become like one of us…”

“Impossible. You don’t know what you’d be facing.” Pietro turned away from the pair.

“Thank you for warning us.” The performer spoke to Marguerite, who shook her head.

“Don’t thank me, thank Estienne. Without his help, I never would have found my way here.”

“Nor would I!” Percer appeared at the stairs leading down into the Court. “After twenty years of searching, the Court of Miracles is mine at last.” He descended down the stairs as he spoke, taking his charge’s chin in one hand when he reached him. “Dear Estienne, I always knew you would be of use to me someday.”

“What are you talking about?” There was an edge of panic to Django’s voice.

The judge leered at the performer as he released Estienne’s face. “He led me right to you, my dear.” He turned his attention toward Marguerite. “And look who else I’ve caught in my net—Captain Charron, back from the dead. Another miracle, no doubt.” He spoke to the soldiers by his side. “Arrest the Gypsy and the Captain.”

Estienne stepped in front of the performer. “Spare Django and Marguerite! Take me instead.”

“Oh, Estienne, how very noble of you.” Percer spoke to his soldiers once more. “Round up the rest of the Gypsies and bring them to the Bastille.”

Pietro turned to the others. “Luis, _chitelar ler grasté ta os urdón_! Natalya, _poperes xabe o pany_.” He then reached to his belt, and Percer’s soldiers crowded around the old judge. Pietro shot them glances, raising a hand and pressing it, palm down, on the air. “Relax.” He untied what he was looking for, throwing it at Percer’s feet. “ _Melajol džukel_.”

The old judge picked up the purse, jingling the contents before counting them out.

The performer watched, a range of emotions crossing his face. “ _Kicy? Kicy rupuno_?”

“ _Triânda_.” The sorrow in Pietro’s voice was enough to break Estienne’s heart.

“ _Melalo balo_.” The performer spat at Pietro’s feet.

Pietro turned and ran up the stairs after Natalya. One of Percer’s soldiers made to chase after him, but the old judge held him back.

“We’ll find him.”

“You’ll never find Pietro. He’ll be halfway out of the city in no time.” Luis ran up the stairs before Percer could set the soldiers on him.

“Leave him. My boy,” the old judge grabbed Estienne by the ear, dragging him away from the performer. “I am very disappointed in you.” He released him, turning him over to a small group of soldiers. “Take him back to the bell tower, and make sure he stays there!”

The soldiers marched off, shoving Estienne away, up the stairs and out of the crypt.

“As for Captain Charron,” the judge looked at the Englishwoman, “put her in with the African.”

Marguerite was lead away by a pair of soldiers, as the remaining guards began rounding up the rest of the crowd and forcing them on their way to the Bastille.

“Now for you, my dear,” the old judge leaned into the performer, who tried to lean away, “for you, I have something very _special_ planned.” Percer nodded, and Roland seized the performer from behind and lead him away.

\---

The performer was lead underneath the Palace of Justice, to a stone cellar, the very same cellar where Marguerite had stood when she first arrived in Paris. There, he was brought to a room, where the windows were barred and the door was locked by a heavy beam. As soon as Roland released him, the performer went to one of the corners and sunk down, his arms curling around his knees as he tried to make himself as small as possible.

“Sit while you can. You won’t be able to soon.” The torturer cackled as he took a small vial from a pocket on his belt, walked over to a tall stool and unstoppered the vial, spreading the contents on the apex of the pyramid.

“Roland, start with the horse first.” Percer breezed into the room, followed by a small gaggle of soldiers.

The torturer bowed before moving to a large triangular plank of wood, mounted on a support system of four legs.

“Get up!” Roland barked, and the performer did as he was commanded and went to the apparatus. “Get on!”

The performer climbed onto the plank, watching as the torturer tied weights to his ankles. He shifted his weight forward, earning snickers from the assembled soldiers.

“See how long he lasts, then move him to the cradle. Send for me when he’s finished.”

Roland nodded as two of the soldiers went ahead of the judge.

“Oh, and, Roland? Don’t go too hard on him. He needs to be alive if we’re going to have a bonfire.” The old judge cackled as he left with a sweep of his robes, the two remaining soldiers following behind.

On the horse Django sat, his full weight kept him lurched forward, kept upright by the weights tied to his ankles.

Roland eventually pulled a chair up to the horse, sat, and pulled an apple from his pocket. He rubbed it on his grubby shirt before taking a bite, the loud crunch jarring the performer back to his senses.

By now, pain was beginning to set in, the performer could feel it in himself. His balls were crushed underneath him, all his weight rested upon his groin. He groaned and tried to shift his weight somewhere, anywhere else, just to relieve the pain.

“You finished?”

The performer whimpered as he opened his eyes, Roland stood before him, a cruel smile twisting his already twisted face further.

“Well?” The torturer demanded, not moving from where he stood.

“Yes.” The word seemed to fly from Django’s mouth, it was as if he hadn’t spoken it, but rather it escaped from his mouth, of its own free will.

Roland stepped forward and untied the heavy weights from Django’s ankles, setting them underneath the horse before lifting the performer off. He set the performer down too harshly, slamming him down roughly on the stone floor, so he fell with a cry of pain.

“Ha, you think you’re in pain now. Get up!” Roland picked the performer up by his shirt, stripping it from him and casting it aside. “Strip.”

“What?!” Django’s hands flew to his chest, as if he were some maid with a fear of being uncovered by a strange man.

“You heard me. Strip. Now!” Roland dragged his chair before the stool.

Again, the performer did as he was commanded. The torturer reached up above the pyramid-topped stool, for a harness mounted to the ceiling. Django watched as Roland brought the harness down, opened it, then placed it around the performer’s chest, closing the band of metal when it was just above his ribs. Then, untying a length of rope that had been tied to a ring on the wall, the torturer pulled at the rope, hoisting Django into the air. The torturer then let the rope go very slowly, lowering the performer down over the pyramid, inch by inch. Django looked down, and did not like where the top of the pyramid was aimed for. As much as he tried to relax his muscles, the performer found himself involuntarily clenching them, which only made the entry of the pyramid’s apex even more painful.

As soon as he had adjusted to the feeling, the torturer pulled on the rope and raised him from the pyramid, into the air once again. This continued for some time, until Roland decided that he was finished. He sent a soldier with a message for Percer, and the judge entered the room just as Django was finishing pointing his shirt to his hose.

“I see he survived. Pity. Ah, well. Take him to his cell.” Without so much as another word, the judge breezed from the room once again, this time unaccompanied by any soldiers or guards.

Django was blindfolded and led from the room down the underground of the Palace of Justice. He heard the squeak of metal hinges turning and the blindfold was removed from over his eyes. He was shoved into the cell, falling on a pile of dirty straw. Roland slammed the cell door shut behind him and left without a word. The performer lay on his side, curled up on the straw to keep himself off of the cold stone floor. The words to a Dufay song came to his mind and he found himself singing softly, so only he could hear.

“I have the right to complain and groan, I who am exempt from happiness and joy. Where to find one single comforting thing I know not, Nor know how I can survive. Reason harms me and tries to abandon me, Hope fails me in this place where I am…I am hunted by Fortune; I know not where to stop, Fortune makes war on me so fiercely….But I have to put up with it and suffer.”

Closer toward the door, there arose another voice, this one singing in a foreign tongue.

“… _Hubbi jamaluh fatanna…Aw ma bi-lahzu asarna…Wa’di wa ya hirati man li rajim shakwati bil-houbbi min law’ati illa maleek’ul jamal, bil-houbbi min law-ati illa maleek’ul jamal_ …”

Marguerite leaned back against the stone wall of cell, trying to keep her eyes open, but the late hour and the singing were proving her efforts difficult. “It’s beautiful.” She spoke only when the singer had ceased his song.

“Thank you.”

“What does it mean?”

The singer grinned, his white teeth dazzling in the dark of the prison. “Her beauty amazed me…I have become a prisoner of her eyes…O my promise, O my perplexity, who can answer my complaint about love and suffering but the beautiful one? About love and suffering but the beautiful one?” The singer fell silent, drinking in the beauty of the Captain in the pale moonlight beams that fell from the barred window.

“Jibril, what was Spain like?”

She heard him sigh before he spoke. “It was bright, warm. I lived in Marbella, in the Emirate of Granada. I was happy there. But one day, I said to myself, ‘Jibril al-Ifriqi Jaouhari, you should go to Paris. You have lived in Spain, your father’s land, and you have been to Morocco, your mother’s land, but never once have you seen any more of the world.’ So I left my hometown and came to Paris, where I was arrested by Percer’s soldiers because, well…” The singer turned from Marguerite.

“I…” Marguerite searched for the right word. “I understand. Percer doesn’t like foreigners, or those who are different.”

Down the hall, the performer had begun singing another song, this one sung even more quietly than the last.

“The workers come, And they cut the Pine, Oh, they cut the Pine, And put it in churches. They do icons. They do icons. People who come, Pray to me. And you are the Lime tree, And you are the Lime tree, Workers come, The Lime tree they cut, On the roofs they put it, On the houses they put it. And crows will come, And on the Lime tree they’ll defecate.”

He squinted in the dim light of the cell. Unless his eyes were deceiving him, he thought he saw someone in his cell with him. He lifted his head off the straw. “Estienne?” His voice was barely above a whisper, for fear of being caught. But the only answer he received was from the darkness and the silence, and so he lowered his head and let his eyes fall closed, waiting for sleep to fall upon him and bless him with its blissful emptiness.

He wasn’t allowed to sleep for long before he was woken by a loud ringing noise. He knew it wasn’t the bells, but when he opened his eyes and raised his head he saw Roland banging on the bars of the cell door with a metal rod. 

“Get up.” The torturer growled. “You have a visitor.” 

The performer kept his anger hidden as he made out of the shadow of Percer in the dim torchlight of the prison. The old judge’s robes billowed out behind him as he made his way past the row of empty cells, finally reaching the last in the block.

“Do you feel as uncomfortable as you look?” There was no real concern in the judge’s voice.

“I wouldn’t give you the pleasure.” Django spat back.

“It brings me no pleasure. I want to set you free.” The judge moved closer to the cell.

Django moved back, away from the bars of the door. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because in order to do that, I need you to make me a promise. You see? I want to help you. I believe your soul can be saved.” Percer was now clutching the door bars, as if trying to get as close to the performer as he could without touching him.

“Not the way you save! I’d rather die!”

“What about Estienne, your love? Would you rather he die as well?”

Django’s eyes went wide. “How did you— how did you _possibly_ —? No! Don’t kill him!” He had rushed to the door, nearly dropping to his knees. “Please.” He lowered his head, and was surprised that the word came as a whisper as he grasped at the bars, his hair falling in his eyes.

“His fate lies in your hands.” The judge sounded like he almost pitied the performer.

“Why me of all people?!” The performer looked up, his tears welling in his eyes.

“I don’t know! I wish I knew. Sometimes, we’re drawn to the very things that would repel us.” Percer made to grab Django’s shirt, but the performer pulled out of the judge’s reach.

“You truly _are_ a monster.”

“No. No! If these last few days have taught me anything, it’s that my curses…Take pity on me. You don’t know what my love for you is! It’s fire! It’s hot lead!”

“I don’t want your love!” The performer ran from the bars back into the depths of the cell.

“Very well! Roland!”

The torturer appeared at the judge’s side.

“Bring the Captain.”

The torturer left down the hall. The sound of a cell door opening and closing filled the prison, and when Roland returned, he had the Captain held fast by one wrist. Marguerite's hair was unbraided, her tunic was stained and ripped at her right shoulder, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Still, Django rushed to the door of the cell.

“Marguerite!” He was surprised that her name had come so readily from his lips.

The Captain said nothing, only searched the performer’s face, as if for some sign that all hope was not yet lost. Roland stepped forward and unlocked the door, throwing Marguerite into Django’s arms.

“Perhaps, my dear, this will help you to think over my offer. Exchange your last words with each other. Unless, of course, you change your mind.” Percer turned to Roland. “Don’t let them stay together for too long.” The torturer grunted at the old judge, who gathered up his robes and left the prison.

“Django…” She moved out of his loose grip, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to keep warm.

“Just give me a moment.” The performer shook his head, trying to keep it clear.

“Percer. What has he done?” The Captain turned back to face him.

“He said—he…offered to set me free. If…”

“Yes?”

“If I gave myself up to him.”

Marguerite sunk to her knees. “Is there any other way you can save yourself?”

“That’s not what I would call saving myself. But I might be able to save you. Forgive me for not sitting down.”

The Captain waved away his concern. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t care what happens to me.”

“But I—”

Roland opened the door. “Alright, Captain, time’s up.”

\---

Estienne watched from the bell tower as a stake was being set up in the cathedral square. He, like Samson of old, was chained between two pillars, forced to look on as the people of Paris gathered wood for the pyre. He watched, helpless, as Roland led Django up the steps to the stake and tied the performer’s hands behind the stake. Estienne felt his blood begin to boil when he saw Percer climb up to the stake after Roland left, a torch in one hand.

“The prisoner has been found guilty of entering the city of Paris illegally. The sentence is death!”

The crowd cheered as Percer stepped forward, the torch held ever closer to the wood at Django’s feet.

“I will give him this opportunity to recant and save himself.” The old judge leaned into the performer, knowing there was nowhere he would move to get away. “The time has come, Gypsy. You stand at the abyss. Even now, it is not too late. Think of what I’ve offered. I can save you from the flames of this world, and the next. What is your answer?”

Django said nothing, but lurched forward and spat in the judge’s face. Percer turned back to the crowd.

“The Gypsy Django has refused to recant! For the justice of the country and for the salvation of Paris, it is my sacred duty to send this unholy demon back to hell!”

The old judge held the torch to the wood, watching as the fire caught and spread, the flames licking at Django’s feet.

“Django!” Estienne’s heart nearly broke inside his chest. He couldn’t stop the tears from welling in his eyes as the rising smoke stung at Django’s eyes and choked at the air in his lungs.

“It’s all my fault.” Estienne strained at the chains harder than he had before, shaking the very columns and roof of the cathedral. The bells began to ring gently as, finally, the columns crumbled under the effort of Estienne pulling at the chains. He raised his head as dust flew around him, the chains slumming off. Estienne grabbed a rope and took a running start, looping the noose around a gargoyle before jumping, and landing on his toes, rappelled down the side of the cathedral. He flew out above the crowd, jumping when he was over the stake. Taking a knife that he had concealed in his shoe, Estienne broke the rope binding Django’s hands, grabbing the now-unconscious performer, wrapping the other rope around his hand, and climbing back up the cathedral.

“Estienne!” Percer shouted after his charge.

Having reached the top of the cathedral just outside the north rose window, Estienne raised Django over his head. “Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”

The crowd cheered, for once with Estienne, and not _at_ him.

“Seize the cathedral!” Percer ordered one of the soldiers.

“But sir, the laws of sanctuary!”

“Nevermind the laws of sanctuary! Open those doors!”

Inside the bell tower, Estienne laid Django on the bed inside the room where the performer had once hid. “You’ll be safe in here.” He told the still unresponsive performer. Then the bell-ringer walked back the front of the tower, grabbed a wooden beam, and hurled it down at the soldiers below, who scurried away like ants.

“Come back, you cowards!” Percer yelled at the soldiers. “Use that beam to smash the doors in!”

As the soldiers pounded at the great door, a hooded figure suddenly appeared where Marguerite has been brought out of the prison She was set free, she and Jibril ran to the other cages to free the others that were being taken to the Bastille. Together, she and Pietro and Jibril rallied the crowd to fight against Percer and his soldiers.

“Hear me, people of Paris! Percer has persecuted your people, ransacked your city! Now he has declared war on Notre Dame herself! Will we allow it?!”

The crowd responded with one voice: “No!”

Up in the bell tower, Estienne was heating a vat of lead over a large fire. As he heated the lead, he sang to the saints and gargoyles.

“Come all you saints of stone, all you guardians and gargoyles, raise the fire in the night, raise the fire now and light, these vats of lead, steaming boiling streams of lead, burning lead and let, the flames grow higher, oh saints and monsters, show your power, help me send this raging shower, raining fire on the stone below.”

When the lead became molten, he attached a hook to the back of the vat, then pulled the rope attached to the hook, tipping the vat over. The lead spilled out into the gargoyles, draining out of their mouths and raining down upon the soldiers below. Marguerite and Jibril, as well as Pietro and his band, had managed to get into the cathedral and were hiding in the chapel when Percer snuck inside, making for the stairs that led to the bell tower. The Archdeacon saw the judge, and confronted him on the stairs.

“Percer, have you gone mad? I will not tolerate this assault on a house of God!”

Percer shoved the Archdeacon down the stairs. “Silence, you old fool! The boy and I have unfinished business to attend to. And this time, you will not interfere.” The judge locked the door once he reached the top of the stairs.

Estienne burst into the small room, nearly drunk with his success. “We’ve done it, Django! Beaten them back! Django?” He went to the performer, still unmoving since Estienne brought him back to the bell tower. “Django?” The bell-ringer reached a hand out to the performer’s, feeling the icy cold that seemed to coat his skin.

“Is he dead?”

Estienne started at the sound of Percer’s voice, having not heard him enter the room.

“Because of you.” Estienne didn’t try to hide the sob in his voice. “You killed him.”

“I could have helped him, Estienne. Even loved him.”

“Love?” The bell-ringer sniffed and swiped his sleeve under his nose. “What do you know of love? Who have you ever loved?”

“I…I loved you. I tried to teach you. But you are weak, wicked!”

“Me? You are the weak one. You’re the wicked one!” Estienne now rose up from his knees, standing his full height, a look of vengeance in his eyes. “And the wicked shall not go unpunished!” The bell-ringer chased the old judge from the bell tower, to the balcony. He seized upon him, lifting the judge over the balcony stones.

“Let go of me! Estienne, no, don’t!”

“I told you, master! I am very strong!”

With a great roar, Estienne threw his master over the edge of the balcony into the molten lead below. As he fell, the judge could be heard screaming his final word:

“Damnation!”

After he had done this, Estienne sunk to his knees, facing the door leading into the tower. “There lies all I have ever loved.” He didn’t try to stop the tears that fell freely down his cheeks. He had lost everything; his master, who, as cruel as he had been, had raised him; and Django, who had loved him despite, or perhaps _because of_ , his lack of beauty. The bell-ringer returned to the tower. He went to Gabriel, the Great Bell, and pulled on the rope. The bell tolled once, and Estienne waited until the reverberation ended before pulling the rope again.

“Why do you mourn me? I’m not dead yet.”

Estienne dropped the rope and turned around slowly. “Django!” He ran to the performer, embracing him and placing kisses on his cheek. He pulled away, fresh tears streaming down his face. “I…I th-thought…I thought you…” His breath came in gasps, he found it harder to breathe than usual, even with his weak lungs.

“Sh, I know, I know.” He ruffled Estienne’s hair. “Come on, let’s go downstairs.” He slung an arm around the bell-ringer’s shoulders as he kicked the door opened. They descended the stairs slowly, in silence, drinking in the warm reassurance that they were both alive. Despite all that had happened, they had both survived.

“ _Vo bešel_!” Pietro sprung up from where he had been sitting, on the floor of the chapel.

“ _Me dživél_.” Django said, nodding.

“ _Lačho_ , I didn’t want to have to burn your things as well.”

“Django, _phral, tu dživél_!”

Django barely had time to move his arm from Estienne’s shoulders before being pulled into a rib-cracking hug by Luis. “Luis, can’t breathe.”

“Oh, sorry.” Luis released the performer, grinning widely. “Guess who I got before we left the Court.”

“My _buzni_?”

“Your _braquía_!” He moved aside, allowing Natalya to release Wanda, who ran to the performer. Django knelt on the cold marble and the goat ran to him, licking his face and bleating at him.

“Hey _ćhajorri_. _Kamao tut_ too.”

Estienne looked out the windows. “I think it’s safe to go outside.”

Django rose slowly, turning to Estienne. “Where would we go? The king knows of the Court, we can’t go back there.”

Estienne turned to Pietro. “Your Majesty, would you marry us?”

Django looked back at the Lord of Misrule, wide-eyed. “You can do that?”

Pietro laughed. “We’re in a _Gadje_ church, but it could be binding, at least until you can get an _affrèrement_.”

“When we make our pilgrimage in May, Estienne will come, and he and I will make an _affrèrement_ in the Church of Saint Michael there.”

Estienne grinned as Pietro came to stand before them. “ _O Django, le Ferkasko la Charaniko anda le Ursarii vica, tu kérél kamel kado Gadje_?”

“ _Uchito _.”__

____

____

“And do you, Estienne, love Django?”

“With all my heart.”

“ _Lačho_. You may exchange rings.”

Estienne produced a gold posy ring from his pocket, sliding it onto Django’s finger. “By my soul, I loved him bad.”

Django took a silver fede ring from one of Wanda’s horns and placed in on Estienne’s finger. “For love of a boy.”

“You may now kiss the _ansurime_.”

And as the sun rose through the stained glass window, throwing various colors onto the cathedral floor, as Django leaned in, about to have his lips meet Estienne’s once again, Estienne remembered where he was, and what he had just done.

“Hold that thought.”

Estienne ran through the chapel and up the stairs to the bell tower. He grabbed Gabriel's rope and pulled, then ran to Marie and tugged on that rope. He went all through the tower, ringing the bells in a full wedding peal. Then he ran back downstairs, back into the chapel. He stood on his tiptoes as he kissed Django again, their bodies bathed in the light of the stained glass of Notre Dame.

**_FIN_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Na co pojdem domov, Načo pôjdem domov, ked´nemám nikoho. Otec sa mi žení mama tá je v čiernej zemi, načo pôjdem domov: Slovak, Why should I go home, why should I go home, when I am alone, Father is getting married, Mother is in the black soil. Why should I go home? The lyrics of this Slovak Romani song can be found [here](https://gypsylyrics.net/2014/06/15/na-co-pojdem-domov/#comment-3764).
> 
> Lasho singa phral: Vlax, good music brother
> 
> Sandunga tacué plas: Caló, thank you brother
> 
> čhāvo: Romungro, boy
> 
> chitelar ler grasté ta os urdón: Caló, ready the horses and wagons
> 
> poperes xabe o pany: North Russian Romani, find food and water
> 
> Melajol džukel: Romungro, dirty dog
> 
> Kicy? Kicy rupuno: Vlax, how much? how much silver?
> 
> Triânda: Vlax, thirty
> 
> Melalo balo: Vlax, flithy pig
> 
> The first song Django sings is a translated version of Dufay's [_Par droit je puis_](http://www.lieder.net/lieder/get_text.html?TextId=89574).
> 
> The particular translation of Jibril's song, _Lamma Bada_ , can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BCGzi9Wz8U0).
> 
> The second song Django sings is a Vlax song, [O Tejo thaj o Brado – the Lime and Pine Trees](http://rroma.org/en/rromanes-language/tales-and-stories/vlax-tales/).
> 
> Vo bešel: Romungro, he lives
> 
> Me dživél: Vlax, I live
> 
> buzni: Vlax, goat
> 
> braquía: Caló, goat
> 
> ćhajorri: Vlax, little girl
> 
> O Django, le Ferkasko la Charaniko anda le Ursarii vica, tu kérél kamel kado Gadje: Vlax, Django, son of Ferka, son of Charani, of the Ursarii clan, do you love this (non-Rom) man. The first half of this phrase, 'O Django, le Ferkasko la Charaniko anda le Ursarii vica', comes from Ian Hancock's [_Glossary of Romani Terms_](https://repositories.lib.utexas.edu/bitstream/handle/2152/31217/GlossaryRomaniTerms.pdf?sequence=1), next to the translation of "Anav Rromano".
> 
> Uchito: Vlax, correct
> 
> ansurime: Vlax, "married" of a man
> 
> Estienne and Django's "wedding vows" are taken from [this translation](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/le-testament-les-regrets-de-la-belle-heaulmi-re/) of Villon's _Les Regrets De La Belle Heaulmière_.


	5. Epilogue: To Love Beauty, To See Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now features art by the incredibly talented juliabizarre! Her art blog can be found [here](http://juliabizarre.tumblr.com). The art can be found at the end of the chapter just before the author's notes or in [this](http://juliabizarre.tumblr.com/post/164471133480/a-watercolor-piece-for-theprinceofprinces-s) post.

“Estienne!” Django came up the stairs to the tower, only to find the bell-ringer absently rubbing at the tarnished brass of the Grand Bell, praying to Saint Agatha.

The bell-ringer looked up. “Is everything ready?”

The performer nodded. “Yes.” He came up behind the bell-ringer, placing his hands on bony shoulders. “Don’t worry, the Archdeacon will take care of the cathedral.”

“But my bells…” Estienne turned his head to look up at Django. “And the gargoyles…”

Django pressed a kiss to Estienne’s forehead. “Marguerite and Jibril will watch over the bells and gargoyles. Stop worrying, _kuč_. Come downstairs, the wagons are waiting.” He threaded his fingers with Estienne’s and gave a gentle tug. Estienne moved, reluctant and slow. Eventually, he stood outside the cathedral, blinking at the wagons which stood in the cathedral square. There were only two wagons, as many of the family decided to stay in Paris or flee to the surrounding countryside. Ahead of the wagons, Natalya sat on Kazimir, her Vyatka stallion. Pietro sat in the first wagon, holding the reins of his Hucul horse. In the second wagon sat Luis, gripping the reins of an Andalusian mare in one hand and eating turrón with the other.

“ _Plas_! You got him!” Luis exclaimed when he saw Django leading Estienne from the cathedral, spraying almonds and nougat everywhere.

“Yes, I found him.” Django patted Ujaranza on the flank as he passed, Estienne still trailing behind. The mare tossed her head and stamped impatiently at the cobblestones of the square. “Pietro!”

The Lord of Misrule scooted down to the edge of the wagon and turned his head sharply. “Hm?”

Django released Estienne, and the bell-ringer pitched forward and stumbled, momentarily unused to supporting his own weight and walking on his own.

“Good. You two’ll be in the second wagon with Luis.” The Lord of Misrule grinned wickedly. “You’ll enjoy that, I’m sure.”

Estienne wanted to make a rude gesture, then thought better of it and walked back to where Django stood, burying his face in the performer’s shirt. “Why do we have to leave so soon?”

It was the first day of April, a month and twenty-three days before the feast day of Saint Sarah.

Django laughed, a hand stroking Estienne’s hair. “Because we don’t know how long it will take us to get there.”

Estienne picked himself up, hair rumbled from Django’s playing with it, not that he cared.

“Alright, get in the wagon.”

Estienne only fixed the performer with a puzzled look, so Django went to the wagon and pulled down a small ladder, pushing open the door once the ladder was down.

“There. Put it back up before you close the door, understand?”

Estienne nodded and entered the wagon, sitting between a wooden chest and a pile of clothing.

“Good.” Django climbed into the wagon, pulling the ladder up behind him before he shut and latched the door. He sat across from Estienne, his legs pulled up and his knees spread apart, his arms crossed over his knees and his chin resting on his arms. He watched Estienne with a fond smile, his hair hanging in his face and his eyes lighting up, even in the relative darkness of the wagon.

“ _Avas džas_!”

There was the clopping of hooves on cobblestone, and Estienne saw the first wagon move before he felt the pitch of their own wagon as it began to move slowly forward. He could tell where in the city they were just by the horses’ hooves, listening as the sound changed from a clip-clop of horseshoes on cobblestones, to plodding as the cobblestones turned to dirt roads, then thuds as the dirt roads gave way to woodlands and grass wet with dew.

Wanada bleated and tried to nose her way into Django’s lap, only to be rebuffed. So she went to Estienne instead. The bell-ringer scratched her face and patted down her back, before circling back around to rub her horns. Wanda bleated happily and licked Estienne’s face once he stopped, as if to urge him to continue. There was a permeable silence throughout the wagon, until Django started to sing.

“ _Devla, Devla, so me kerd’om, mira dake e ladž kerd’om, raňa romňa khere mukl’om, lubňoraha svetos gejl’om_.”

The song was picked up by the others, until all but Estienne were singing. When the song ceased, silence descended once more upon the wagon train, and stayed that way until a cry came up from the front. Luis brought up the reins, stopping in the wagon before Pietro’s. Django got up, throwing open the door and kicking down the ladder. Estienne stayed put, not wanting to interfere.

Pietro jumped down from his wagon. “ _Amen džas na. Bāre tēle_!”

Django walked to where Pietro stood, above a dip in the road. “ _Ame phirel kodo drom_?” He pointed to the surrounding woodland.

“ _Sigeder ondja restje? Šaj_. Natalya!”

The woman turned her head at the sound of her name. “ _So_ , Pietro?”

“ _Ame javela džas vakruk, poles_?”

Natalya nodded and spurred Kazimir forward, into the woods. Pietro climbed back up into the wagon and flicked the reins, guiding the wagon to follow Natalya. Django went back to Luis’ wagon, opening the door and climbing up without the ladder. He sat next to Estienne, his right hand touching the bell-ringer’s left, brushing against his silver ring with the movement of the wagon.

The path through the woods was slow. They had to be wary of trees and undergrowth and always kept an eye out to watch and see if they were being followed. Finally, the wagons stopped once again. Django moved from where he had been sat next to Estienne when he felt the wagon stop. He threw open the door and jumped down from the wagon, then turned and held his arms out to Estienne.

“Jump. I’ll catch you.”

Estienne stood up and went to the edge of the wagon. He jumped down, landing in Django’s strong arms like a bride being carried through the threshold. Django set him down and held his arms out again.

“I’m already out.”

Django rolled his eyes. “Not for you, _dyléno_.”

Wanda jumped into his arms, and he set her down next to Estienne. The bell-ringer turned around, taking in at their surroundings. They had stopped at a clearing in the woods, sheltered away from prying eyes. Pietro had unhitched his horse and was making a fire in the center of the clearing. Natalya returned from deep in the woods, one arm held tight around an armful of firewood, an ax hanging from her free hand. She dropped the wood by the ring of stones where Pietro was building the fire, and set the ax in a nearby tree stump. Luis climbed down from his wagon and walked to the back, threw open the door, pulled down the ladder, climbed up, and rummaged through the wagon, finally coming back with two wooden buckets.

“I’m going to find water, I’ll be right back.” Luis told the group at large.

“Take Natalya with you!” The Lord of Misrule called over his shoulder, poking a stick at the fire now blazing in front of him. Natalya silently followed Luis in the opposite direction, heading deeper into the woods.

“Django!”

The performer turned from looking after Wanda, who was grazing with the horses at the edge of the clearing. “ _So_ , Pietro?”

“ _Tu thaj Timbo avel kathe thaj dikka kaj kado jag_.”

“ _Kaj tu phirel_?”

Pietro said nothing, but got up and walked into the woods.

Django sighed and sat where Pietro had been. Estienne came over and sat next to him, their hands brushing against each other in the cool grass. The touch was quick, fleeting and heated, and Estienne pulled his hand back as if he had been burned.

“Are you alright, _kamel_?”

Estienne nodded, keeping his eyes on the fire before him.

Django licked his lips and placed a single kiss to Estienne’s cheek, soft and gentle, his hair tickling the smooth skin. When he pulled away, Estienne fixed him with a stare.

“What is it, _kamel_?”

“You stopped.” He sounded so sad and pathetic that Django was taken aback.

“Timbo _kamel_ , stopped what, _kuč_?”

Estienne said nothing, but drew closer to the performer and kissed him full on the lips. When he pulled back, he was blushing, the tips of his ears turning bright red.

“I’m sorry, I—”

He was cut off by Django’s finger pressing against his lips, silencing him.

“You’re my husband, you can kiss me whenever you want, as long as we both agree to it. Now,” Django withdrew his finger, “what is it you would have me do?”

“What do you mean?” Estienne frowned, puzzled, his brows knitting together in concern.

“I mean,” the performer began, leaning forward, “that something is bothering you, my love, and I would like to help in any way I can. Starting with your forehead.” He kissed between the bell-ringer’s brows, pressing his lips to the glabella once, twice, three times.

“What are you doing?” Estienne couldn’t help but laugh, it was funny to have his spouse kissing the space between his eyebrows. “It tickles.”

“Good, that means it’s working.” He kept it up, continually pressing tiny little kisses to the space until he felt the wrinkles gradually disappear from between Estienne’s brows. Then he pulled away and pressed a kiss to the bell-ringer’s lips. They stayed lip-locked for a minute or so, and when the performer pulled back, he smiled down at Estienne, happy to see him smiling as well. “Now, my love, how can I make you happy?”

“ _Manger moi_.”

Django blinked. “Right now?”

Estienne stood, pulling the performer up with him. “Yes,” a hand pulled his shirt up and over his head. He was already breathing heavily and flushed pink. His hands went to the straps of the brigandine, but were stopped by a larger hand covering his. The bell-ringer looked up, into his husband’s eyes.

“Let me?”

Estienne nodded, removing his hands.

Django swallowed and slipped the straps from the confines of the buckles, then took the armor from Estienne’s small shoulders and set it on the grass by the bell-ringer’s shirt, which he picked up and placed over his head, slipping the sleeves over his arms once more. He made quick work of Estienne’s shoes and brought his braies down together with his hose. Then he sat back on his heels, basking in the beauty of Estienne in the firelight, the stars forming a halo of light around his golden hair.

“You truly are the prettiest boy I’ve ever met.”

Estienne blushed red and bent down to kiss Django, small hands on broad shoulders. When the bell-ringer pulled back, the performer moved forward, his strong hands coming to rest on either of Estienne’s hips, his right thumb lazily tracing up and down the ridge of prominent hip bone. He kissed down Estienne’s stomach, burying his nose in the soft golden curls. He stayed like that for a few seconds before kissing down to the bell-ringer’s right thigh.

“If you don’t hurry up, we’ll be discovered.”

Django suppressed a laugh. “You take things far too seriously, my dear.”

Estienne cast him a particularly nasty look. “One of us has to be. At least for now. I’m sure you wouldn’t like your family to return, only to find you, tongue deep in what should be my balls.”

This time the performer did laugh. “Very well, I’ll get to it.” He moved his mouth over Estienne’s dick, then gently licked at the bud.

“Ah!” The bell-ringer held tight to the performer’s shirt, balling the white linen in his clenched fists. “Not there! It’s too—”

Understanding what he meant, Django left the bundle of nerves and moved further back. Before he could do anything else, Estienne tangled his fingers through Django’s hair.

“No hole, got it?” Estienne gave Django’s hair a sharp tug when there was no answer. “Got it?” He spoke more firmly, there was more emphasis in his words, more meaning in his voice.

There was another tug at the performer’s scalp before he nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” Estienne released Django’s hair and braced his hands on the performer’s shirt, spreading his legs a bit more to allow Django easier access.

The performer moved his mouth as if he were eating an apple, licking as he moved down, the few days’ worth of stubble he had grown rubbing against Estienne’s thighs and chafing. He pulled away, bits of fluid stuck to his face.

“Can I—?”

Estienne nodded before Django could finish his question.

The performer ducked back down, tonguing and licking and sucking at the bell-ringer’s sensitive nub. Django pulled back to press kisses to Estienne’s inner thighs before returning to the flesh before him. Estienne nearly lost his grip on Django’s shirt when the performer scraped his teeth against the bud.

“Ah!” He was panting now, like a dog in hot weather, and it wasn’t long before he was spilling into the performer’s open mouth, feeling the movement as his tongue tried to get as much as he could without going against what Estienne had told him.

When he was at last finished, the performer rose up, releasing Estienne’s hips and smiling as he licked the white from the corners of his mouth.

“You’re a mess.” Estienne laughed, running a hand through Django’s hair.

Indeed he was; his hair was tangled and mussed from Estienne’s hands, there were sweat marks on the shoulders of his shirt from where the bell-ringer had gripped at it, flecks of white erratically dotted his chin and jaw. Estienne leaned down and wiped the white from his face, smearing it on his own shirt as Django kissed his hands each time they were brought near his lips. When his face was as clean as it would be, the performer got up and found the bell-ringer’s braies and hose, helping him dress and put his brigandine on before the others returned to the clearing for the night. Estienne had just pointed his shirt back to his hose and was sitting down as Django re-stoked the fire, when they heard the sounds of people coming toward the camp.

Natalya appeared first, carrying a bucket of water, and behind her came Luis, also with a bucket of water. Pietro brought up the rear, empty-handed but smiling nonetheless.

“Good, the fire is still burning.” The Lord of Misrule sat next to Django, Luis next to Estienne and Natalya on the far side of the fire.

“Yes, Estienne and I watched it, just as you said.”

Silence fell among the camp, only to be broken by Pietro.

“If my sister were here, she would sing us something.” He cast his eyes down, his hair seeming to glow in the firelight. “Natalya, will you sing us something?”

The woman stood, wiping the back of her skirts down to remove any lingering grass or dirt. She took a deep breath and began to sing, sweet and clear.

“ _Svyetit mesyats, Svyetit yasnyi, Tabor nash davno uzh spit. Gdyezh ty, Sokol moi prekasnyi, Po tyebe dusha bolit_.”

When the song ended, she sat back down. Then the Lord of Misrule sang, though his song, unlike Natalya’s, carried a tone of sorrow with it.

“ _Marel o Del marel, kas korkoro kamel, u man o Del mard’a, na džanaz vaš soske_.”

When his song was finished, Pietro sat back down next to Django. Silence set in, until Estienne broke it.

“You have a sister?”

Pietro nodded, keeping his eyes locked on the fire. “Wanda.”

“The goat is your sister? Ow!” The bell-ringer glared at Django, rubbing his arm where the performer had punched him.

“ _Dyléno_.”

Pietro laughed, but there seemed to be little mirth in it. “No _buka jek_ , not Django’s goat.” He looked back into the fire as he spoke. “Wanda was my twin sister, though I’m older by about twelve minutes. She was my best friend, and a great help to the family we were a part of in Sokovia. Then our parents died from a resurgence of the plague, and we left the family we had been traveling with for Bratislava, just the two of us. We took to the streets to earn whatever money we could; I sang and performed, Wanda read palms and told fortunes. We made our way to Paris when we were sixteen. If I had known what would happen as we journeyed there, I would have had us both return to Sokovia.” He rubbed a hand across his face, stifling the sniffs that threatened to give his emotions away.

“I had met the twins a few months after they came to the city. Pietro became the King of our family and Wanda was a great help to our little band. I went into the country to do washing, because it was safer to do it there than at the Court or in the city. Wanda came to warn me of soldiers approaching the bridge where I were doing the washing, but as she was on the bridge—”

“They shot her! Arrows through her back! She fell there, in the middle of the bridge, and—”

“And I ran up and picked her up and took her back under the bridge with me, hid her from the soldiers as they tromped over our heads. When they were gone, I returned to the Court and Pietro burned Wanda’s things, but let me keep her shawl, which I wear now. Not two months after Wanda’s death, I found my Wanda, or rather, she found me, and I named her after Pietro’s sister, in honor of her.”

“So when Pietro mentioned burning your things—”

Django nodded gravely. “We burn the possessions of those who have died, because they are unclean. If the circumstances had been different, I wouldn’t wear my shawl, as it had been owned and worn by a woman, but it has been cleansed since Wanda died.” He removed his shawl and placed one end around Estienne’s shoulders, keeping the other end on his own shoulders.

\---

The next morning, Estienne ran from the wagon, nearly tripping over the ladder on his way to the woods. He dropped his hose and braies and—

“ _Merde_.”

He left his braies and hose where they were and ran back to the wagon, his hands cupped between his legs in a desperate attempt to stop the blood. “Django!”

There was a banging sound, and some mumbled words, and the performer appeared in the doorway, rubbing an eye sleepily, his shawl hastily thrown over one shoulder. “What is it, Timbo?” He yawned, covering his mouth with a hand.

“I’m bleeding.” Blood dripped from his cupped hands onto the grass below in heavy, thick droplets.

Django dropped his hands from his face. “So you are.” He went back into the wagon, and came back with a pocket tied around his waist, adjusting his shawl as he stumbled down the ladder. “C’mon,” he slung an arm around Estienne’s shoulders, “let’s go clean you up.”

Estienne took him to the spot where he had left his lower clothing, his arms aching from holding them downward for so long. Some of the blood had already dried between his fingers, and he tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his lower abdomen as he paced around the area.

“Come here.”

“But—”

Django fixed him with a look, and Estienne removed his hands, bending his elbows toward his body and groaning at the ache in his joints. The blood gushed from him in a mighty wave, as if his body were entirely trying to purge itself of the fluid. Estienne struggled to keep on his feet, and Django took one of his hands in his own and lead him to the stream. The bell-ringer left a bloody trail behind him as he walked. The performer knelt downstream, dipping Estienne’s hands in the running water, speaking as he washed away the blood.

“ _Me thovel tu. Kado rat na fuipén kérél. Me thovel tu_.”

When the blood was gone from the bell-ringer’s hands, the performer sat back, coaxing Estienne to do the same.

“Stay here.” The performer made to stand, then saw Estienne’s hands travel back downward. “Don’t. I’ll be back.” He stood and walked around, scanning trees and rocks as he moved slowly through the area.

Estienne closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the performer was sat in front of him, a piece of moss held in one hand.

“Do you have spare braies?”

The bell-ringer said nothing, only took the almost thong-like braies from the pocket of his belt, which he had discarded earlier that morning with the rest of his lower clothing. The performer gave the moss to Estienne in exchange for the braies, took a strip of cloth and a needle and thread from the pocket he wore, and sat down; sewing the moss inside the cloth and placing the absorbent on the bottom of the braies, which he then helped Estienne into.

“That should help. I’ll make you more, you’ll need more.”

The bell-ringer pointed his shirt to his hose. “What about the pain?”

Django stood from washing his hands downstream. “Where do you hurt?” He flicked the remaining water from his hands and patted them dry on his hose.

Estienne put a hand low on his abdomen. “Here.”

“We need Luis. But you need to stay here.” Django turned to leave.

“Why do I have to stay?”

The bell-ringer had barely finished his sentence before the performer whirled around and faced him with a hard stare.

“Because you’re unclean, at least in Pietro’s eyes. I’ll get Luis, we’ll be right back.”

Estienne remained in the clearing, sat in the grass by the stream, until he heard the sound of footsteps crashing through the underbrush. He stood up too fast, and felt the sickening sensation of blood rushing out of his body. He steadied himself on a nearby tree, leaning against the rough bark, remaining there until Django and Luis had both entered the clearing. Luis walked slowly, a cup held in both hands. Estienne reached for the cup offered him, and drank the contents down in three gulps. When he was finished, he handed the cup back to Luis.

“What was that?”

“Tea. I found these great raspberry leaves back in Spain and picked them, ‘cause I heard they’re good for stuff like this, you know? So I brought them with me when I came to France. The tea is supposed to help with your pain. I’ll reheat more and bring it you.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Estienne, you can’t. If Pietro sees you…” Django shook his head. “Just stay here. I’ll stay with you.” As if to make a point, the performer sat at the foot of the tree the bell-ringer leaned against. “Luis, if Pietro asks about Estienne, tell him that Estienne is unclean and can’t enter the camp. As for me, I touched him and am unclean by association.”

“Are you two going to stay here until it passes?”

The performer faced his friend. “He shall have to, and I need to support him. So, yes, we will be staying here until it’s safe for Estienne to travel again. Tell Pietro what I said. I’ll be back in camp to get Estienne and myself food.”

“I could—”

“Thank you for the offer Luis, but you have enough to do already. Just give Pietro my message, please.”

Luis nodded and turned back the way he had come. The performer and the bell-ringer watched him go in silence. When they were both sure that Luis was gone and out of the earshot, Django settled down and turned to Estienne, patting the grass by his side. Estienne sat by him, rubbing his back.

“Here, let me help.”

Estienne turned his back to his husband and dropped his hand. Django scratched up and down the bell-ringer’s back, rubbing circles with his palms and massaging the small bony shoulders. Estienne sighed, content, the sun filtering through the branches in the trees and giving the effect of individual rays of light shining on the grass. Eventually Django ceased his ministrations, and Estienne heard his hand drop to the ground as he turned and leaned back against the tree. They sat there in silence for a while, until Estienne spoke.

“Why are you allowed back into the camp, but I’m not?”

“Because of who I am, and because I’ve cleansed myself since touching you.”

“So if I cleanse myself…” Estienne began, but he felt a hand on his thigh, and closed his mouth.

“No, _kamel_ , it doesn’t work like that.” Django turned to face him, a tired smile on his face. He somehow seemed older now than ever before. Estienne leaned forward, trying to see him in a different light, one that didn’t seem to age him as much. Eventually, he stopped trying and accepted that the light was playing tricks on his eyes. “It’s more complicated than that. You can’t cleanse yourself because of who you are. Pietro sees you as an outsider, even more than he sees me as one.”

“But he doesn’t see you—”

“He does, _kuč_. I love you, and that makes me different, and Pietro doesn’t like that. But he tolerates me, because I brought in good money, and because Wanda liked me. He would have sold me out to Pe—”

Django saw the look on Estienne’s face, and swallowed what he would have said, and continued.

“Pietro would have sold me out to the judge, he will do anything to get rid of me. This pilgrimage is his last resort. He’ll leave us in Notre-Dame-de-la-Mer, affrèremented, with Luis and Natalya. He will make his way back to Paris alone, and won’t lose a minute of sleep over what he’s done.”

“Django!”

The performer stood at the sound of Luis calling his name.

“I brought more tea for Estienne.” He gave the cup to the bell-ringer, who took it with thanks. Luis set down the cooking pot, a wooden spoon still stuck in it. “The rest’s in there. You just reheat it when need you it.”

“Thank you Luis. What did Pietro say?”

Luis grimaced, as if he was in pain. “He said Estienne’s got today to spend here, then we’re moving on.”

“That’s it, I’m talking to him myself. Luis, will you stay with Estienne?”

“Of course _plas_.”

Estienne watched as Django tromped through the underbrush, walking like a man on a mission.

\---

“Pietro!”

The Lord of Misrule barely had time to turn around before the performer decked him square in the nose. He reeled back, hands flying to his nose and covering the protuberance completely. When he turned back to face Django, he pulled his hands away from his nose slowly, blinking at the blood on his palms. He looked back at Django, his eyes wide in fear and betrayal.

“Django? _Why_? After all I’ve done for you, _this_ is how you repay me?”

Django pulled the knife he wore from his belt and spun it in his hand. “I would think twice before you open your mouth again, Pietro. As you can imagine, I’m not too happy with you right now.”

“I think you broke my nose.” Pietro’s words came out thick and nasally, as he was now pinching his nose in an attempt to cease the blood from flowing down his face.

“I’m sorry but considering everything you’ve put me through, I think you fully deserved it.” The performer sheathed his knife as he spoke.

“‘Everything I’ve put you through’? What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you talk about Estienne when you think we can’t hear you. You’re very lucky he doesn’t speak any _chib_.”

“ _Ō le čučča! Ō so na jek murš_!”

Django punched him again, this blow landing square on his jaw. Pietro stumbled back, one hand covering his nose, the other holding his jaw.

“ _Tu phenel akana kodo ke voj si mizh thaj chuchi, voj si na manush_!?”

When Pietro regained his composure, he looked Django dead in the eye.

“ _Taj tut…tut le bukri iš o džukela_!”

Django had half a mind to punch him again, but stopped himself just short of his fist making contact with Pietro’s face for the third time in the last five minutes. Instead, he turned around and walked back the way he came.

“Sunset, Django! He can stay there until sunset, then he and you both come back. We’re continuing on tomorrow!”

\---

Django led Estienne back to the camp as the sun sank behind the trees, painting the forest gold and orange and purple. The performer threw down the ladder and opened the door and led the bell-ringer back into the safety of the wagon. They moved quietly, as Luis was already asleep, snoring soundly in the dark. Once Estienne was sat down among the cookware and instruments, Django wrapped his shawl around bony shoulders, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Django turned from the door. “I have some unfinished business. I won’t be long, I promise.” He had one foot out of the door and a hand on the doorsill when Estienne spoke his name.

“Django?”

“Hm?” He turned again.

“I love you.”

The performer smiled. “I love you too.”

“And Django?”

“Yes Estienne?”

“Be careful.”

“I always am.”

Django gently pulled the door closed and put the ladder up once he was on the ground again. He looked ahead and saw Pietro sat in front of a fire, Natalya next to him, the flames causing light and shadows to dance upon their faces. Cautiously, almost nervously, the performer approached the fire.

“May I sit?”

Pietro looked up, the fire still dancing in his eyes. “Of course.”

Django sat by Pietro’s other side, his eyes set on the flickering flames before him.

“I’m sorry I punched you in the nose. And the jaw.”

Pietro snorted.

“And I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Apology accepted. I’m sorry I insulted you and Estienne. In your defense, I deserved what you gave me. Probably knocked some sense into me.”

“Hey, you and Natalya go get some sleep. I’ll watch over the camp tonight.”

Pietro rose to his feet, then turned from where he stood. “Are you sure?”

Django nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”

\---

As the wagons neared the town, they slowed to a halt and Pietro let out a cry: “ _Sako hi āri_!”

Django and Estienne stood by their wagon, Luis was at the front, talking to Ujaranza as he patted the mare. “You’ll have to stay here until the ceremony is over. Then we can get our _affrèrement_. You understand, yes?”

“Yes.” Estienne nodded. He hadn't been bleeding for a few days now, after enduring two weeks of pain and suffering.

“Good.” Django nipped at the bell-ringer’s lips once, twice, three times before he walked away, following the others down the sloping path that lead from the woods into the waterfront town.

Estienne watched the trio enter the church before turning his attention to Wanda, who was nibbling at the dew-wet grass and bleating happily.

\---

When Estienne looked back up, there was a huge mass of people, all in a great throng, making their way to the sea. He turned back to Kazimir, who pawed at the ground and shook his head.

\---

A whistle pierced the air, shrill and clear, and Estienne snapped his head up. There stood Django, grinning broadly, his hose soaked at the knees and sand in his hair.

“How did you get sand in your hair?” Estienne laughed as he ran down the slope, falling into Django’s open arms.

“I fell on the beach after the procession. Luis helped me up, Natalya and Pietro just laughed.”

“Come on, let’s go get affrèremented.”

As they walked to the church, Estienne brushed sand from Django’s hair.

\---

The priest came forward and placed the Gospel on the Gospel stand, and Estienne reached forward and put his right hand on the book. Django did the same. The priest then censed them and crossed them, and spoke.

“In peace we beseech Thee, O Lord. For heavenly peace, we beseech Thee, O Lord. For the peace of the entire world, we beseech Thee, O Lord. For this holy place, we beseech Thee, O Lord. That these thy servants, Estienne and…Django, be sanctified with thy spiritual benediction, we beseech Thee, O Lord. That their love abide without offense or scandal all the days of their lives, we beseech Thee, O Lord. That they be granted all things needed for salvation and godly enjoyment of life everlasting, we beseech Thee, O Lord. That the Lord God grant unto them unashamed faithfulness and sincere love, we beseech Thee, O Lord. Have mercy on us, O God.”

The congregation, which was made up of Pietro and Natalya and Luis and a few others, then spoke thrice.

“Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”

The priest continued, “Forasmuch as Thou, O Lord and Ruler, art merciful and loving, who didst establish humankind after thine image and likeness, who didst deem it meet that thy holy apostles Philip and Bartholomew be united, bound one unto the other not by nature but by faith and the spirit. As Thou didst find thy holy martyrs Serge and Bacchus worthy to be united together, bless also these thy servants, Estienne and Django, joined together not by the bond of nature but by faith and in the mode of the spirit, granting unto them peace and love and oneness of mind. Cleanse from their hearts every stain and impurity and vouchsafe unto them to love one another without hatred and without scandal all the days of their lives, with the aid of the Mother of God and all thy saints, forasmuch as all glory is thine.”

Estienne removed his hand from the book and kissed Django, slowly and gently. When the bell-ringer pulled back, the priest sang.

“By the union of love the apostles join in the praying to the Master of all; themselves committed to Christ, they extended their beautiful feet, announcing the good news of peace to everyone.”

“You want to go ring the _klopoto_ now, _cino jilo_?"

“Only if you come with me.”

They kissed all the way up to the bell tower, happy to finally be together for always and eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kuč: Vlax, dear
> 
> Avas džas: Romungro, let's go
> 
> Devla, Devla, so me kerd’om, mira dake e ladž kerd’om, raňa romňa khere mukl’om, lubňoraha svetos gejl’om: Oh God, what did I do, I caused my mother to be ashamed, I left at home a gentle wife, and I went away with a whore. Both this song and the song that Pietro sings are found in [_What is the Romani Language?_](https://books.google.com/books?id=UePBhYdCgRoC&pg=PA52&dq=vlax+romani+songs&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi30M3xsL7VAhVo0FQKHQSbAjMQ6AEIJjAA#v=onepage&q=vlax%20romani%20songs&f=false).
> 
> Amen džas na. Bāre tēle: Romungro, we go not. Too down.
> 
> Ame phirel kodo drom: Vlax, we walk that way?
> 
> Sigeder ondja restje? Šaj: Romungro, through the woods? maybe
> 
> Ame javela džas vakruk, poles: North Russian Romani, we will go around, understand?
> 
> dyléno: Vlax, fool
> 
> Tu thaj Timbo avel kathe thaj dikka kaj kado jag: Vlax, you and (Estienne) come here and look at (watch) this (the) fire
> 
> Kaj tu phirel: Vlax, where you walk? (where are you going?)
> 
> Manger moi: French, eat me out
> 
> Svyetit mesyats, Svyetit yasnyi, Tabor nash davno uzh spit. Gdyezh ty, Sokol moi prekasnyi, Po tyebe dusha bolit: North Russian Romani, The moon is shining, the Gypsy camp is asleep. A young Gypsy waits for her friend. She lives untroubled in her nomad tent and sings all day long. This and other Russian Romani song lyrics can be read in Russian Cyrillic, the Latin alphabet, and English [here](http://media.smithsonianfolkways.org/liner_notes/monitor/MON00404.pdf).
> 
> Marel o Del marel, kas korkoro kamel, u man o Del mard’a, na džanaz vaš soske: God punishes, whom he himself wants, me also God has punished, I don't know why
> 
> buka jek: Romungro, little one
> 
> Me thovel tu. Kado rat na fuipén kérél. Me thovel tu: Vlax, I wash you. This blood no harm do. I wash you.
> 
> Ō le čučča! Ō so na jek murš: Romungro, He has two breasts! He is not a man!
> 
> Tu phenel akana kodo ke voj si mizh thaj chuchi, voj si na manush: Vlax, You say now that because he has vagina and breast, he is no man!?
> 
> Taj tut…tut le bukri iš o džukela: Romungro, And you...you are under even the dogs!
> 
> Sako hi āri: Romungro, every one out
> 
> The _affrèrement_ rite spoken by the priest combines two rites, both of which can be read [here](http://www2.kenyon.edu/projects/margin/rites.htm).
> 
> klopoto: Vlax, bell. I found this word listed [here](http://rrojasandribbons.tumblr.com/post/159689703298/religious-mythological-terms-in-vlax-romani).
> 
> cino jilo: Vlax, little heart


	6. Bibliography

Whatever I didn't link in the various chapter notes ended up here.

The timeline of Romani migration milestones found [here](http://www.babayagamusic.com/Encyclopedic-Dictionary-Ethnic-Arts/gypsy-romany-dance-and-music.htm) helped to give me an idea of when different groups of Roma would be where.

Both the [movie script](http://www.fpx.de/fp/Disney/Scripts/HunchbackOfNotreDame.txt) and the script for the [musical](https://www.scribd.com/document/326081745/The-Hunchback-of-Notre-Dame-The-Musical-Script) helped with dialogue and action.

I cannot begin to describe how helpful I found the [phrase search](http://romani.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/db/phrase.html) while writing this. Similarly, [this](https://glosbe.com/en/rmy) English to Vlax Romani dictionary was extraordinarily helpful, as was Josè Manuel Mójica Legarre's [Calò-Spanish, Spanish-Calò dictionary](http://www.academia.edu/11649711/Vocabulario_Cal%C3%B3-Espa%C3%B1ol_Espa%C3%B1ol-Cal%C3%B3).

I also owe a great debt to my dear fandom ma Fox, who composed a document teaching me the basics of Kalderash, and answered my questions regarding Romanes. I couldn't have written all the dialogue in Romanes without her help.

[Same-Sex Couples Creating Households in Old Regime France: The Uses of the _Affrèrement_ *](http://www.academia.edu/215355/Same-Sex_Couples_Creating_Households_in_Old_Regime_France_The_Uses_of_the_Affr%C3%A8rement._) by Allan A. Tulchin is a paper on _affrèrement_ , which provided background on the subject.


End file.
